


Hunter's Moon

by Bridgesto



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, Genderswap, Girl!Derek, Girl!Stiles, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Rule 63, Torture, Women Being Awesome, mostly pre-slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-05
Updated: 2013-01-05
Packaged: 2017-11-23 18:08:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/625115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bridgesto/pseuds/Bridgesto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scott has a hero-complex; Stiles has a staying-alive-complex with an override button the size of Texas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hunter's Moon

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to mercurydraconix for initial beta, brainstorming, plot assistance and much general hand-holding. 
> 
> And many more thanks to Viola25 for final beta and pushing me to be a better writer.
> 
>  
> 
> Post Season 2

 

Stiles is jogging in the forest – because, seriously, if she’s going to be palling around with supernaturally strong-and-fast types she is _going_ to have to get into shape – when she comes across Derek Hale strung up by her wrists and flopping around awkwardly like a fish on a line.  

Stiles first reaction is to stare blankly.  Her second is to laugh until her sides hurt, because Derek is usually so cool and dignified, and this is the _exact opposite_ of cool and dignified.

Stiles has never claimed to be a particularly good person.  Also, Derek probably deserves it; Stiles blames her for pretty much every werewolf-related problem in her life, which, okay, is mostly because Stiles is still legitimately terrified of Peter and only _a little bit_ terrified of Derek.  It just seems safer to blame everything on Derek, is the point, she’s an easy target.

Derek twists and kicks fruitlessly at the air, dark hair tousled and glaring daggers, which only makes Stiles laugh harder.  Derek has to call her name three or four times before Stiles finally calms down.

“Hey,” Stiles says at last, still giggling, “didn’t expect to see you hanging around.”

The look Derek gives her tells Stiles very clearly that if she wasn’t already dead for laughing, she would be for the terrible pun.

“Get. Me. Down.” Derek grits out from between teeth that are clenched so hard Stiles is pretty sure she can hear enamel cracking.

“Yeah yeah,” Stiles says, “Or you’ll rip my throat out with your teeth.”

“Got it in one,” Derek replies, snapping said teeth pointedly.

“How come you can’t get _yourself_ down?” Stiles asks, curious.  It looks a lot like the tripwire Scott sprang that one time, and he got out of _that_ okay on his own…although come to think of it, Scott had been upside down and had been able to use his claws.  But still… “What’s wrong with your teeth?  Surely you can bite through rope more easily than you could tear my throat out, and I’ve _seen_ you do pull-ups, don’t front.”

“First of all, it would be much, _much_ easier to rip your throat out than it would be to bite through this cord.” Derek says, clearly struggling to hold onto her temper.  From the looks of things, she’s hanging on to it by her _fingernails._

Stiles swallows and tries not to smell nervous.

“And secondly?”

“And secondly, it’s soaked in wolfsbane.  I _could_ bite through it – and I will if necessary, if only so I can come down there and kick your ass – but I generally prefer to avoid poisoning myself if at all possible so if you _don’t mind._ ”  Derek jerks her head upward at the rope around her wrists.

This is more words at one time than Stiles has possibly _ever_ heard from Derek, but then, Derek’s usual method of communication involves a lot of slamming Stiles into walls and other forms of _physical violence,_ which are not currently an option.  Stiles smirks a little and makes a show of deliberating.

“Well, okay, I guess I could help out, so long as you promise not to maul me for laughing earlier.”

Derek looks like she’s seriously considering the offer, and Stiles backs up a step, just in case Derek decides wolfsbane poisoning _is_ worth it after all.

“ _Fine._ ” Derek growls, “Just get me down.”

Now that Stiles is actively trying to help, she’s not actually sure how she’s going to manage this.  The other end of the rope holding Derek up is tied off to a piece of metal stabbed into a nearby tree.  The knot is big and the line is extremely taut, what with Derek dangling from the other end of it and all, and it’s also a good two feet over Stiles’ head. She can jump up and grab the rope, but that doesn’t get it untied.  

“Uh, okay, so,” Stiles starts awkwardly, “we still have that deal where you’re not going to kill me, but, like, how do I get you down?  I don’t exactly carry a knife with me.  Although, you know, maybe I should start?  But seriously, thoughts?  I’m open to suggestions here.”

“I don’t know,” Derek says tightly, “Think of something.  And hurry.”

Derek is actually not looking so good, probably proximity to all that wolfsbane.  Her skin is a sickly sort of grayish color, and her dark hair is damp with sweat.  And Derek’s expression has shifted from Pissed Off and Mildly Embarrassed to Wary and Alert, a nuance Stiles kind of hates herself for being able to recognize.

“Hurry?” Stiles says, looking for something she can stand on to reach the knots, “Why hurry?  Is someone coming?”

Derek goes very still, cocks her head to one side, and sniffs at the air.

“Time’s up,” she growls, “Get out of here, Stiles.”

Derek wraps her hands around the rope over her head, hauls herself up and starts gnawing on the cord as Stiles stares, frozen.  Derek pauses, spits.  There’s a fine sheen of sweat on her skin, and in the fight between Derek’s teeth and the rope, the rope is definitely still winning.

“Go!” Derek snaps, attacking the rope again.

Stiles goes.  She’s not proud of herself, but she’s got other people to think of too, and from what she’s seen, hunters tend to shoot first and ask questions later.  Which is all very well if you’re a _werewolf_ and have, like, instant healing abilities, but Stiles, as she is frequently and often painfully reminded, is only human.  And it’s not like she owes Derek anything.  They’ve saved each other’s lives a couple of times, sure, but Stiles is almost positive they’re square at the moment…

Stiles turns around in time to see Derek lose her grip on the rope and fall, dangling by her wrists and glaring upwards.  She makes an effort to pull herself back up, but the wolfsbane is taking its toll now and Derek clearly just doesn’t have the strength.

Stiles hesitates, then throws herself behind the nearest tree as she catches a glimpse of the approaching hunters.

There are two of them.  They’re both carrying crossbows, and wearing the same nondescript, durable clothing Allison dons whenever she’s suiting up.  Stiles ducks down and watches them approach; she tells herself she can’t run now without attracting their attention.  Carefully, she pulls out her phone, silences it, and sends a quick message to Scott before turning her attention back to Derek and the hunters.

When the hunters see Derek they pause, looking around warily.  Then, apparently deciding that the coast is clear, they saunter forward.  There’s a tall, older one with a beard, and a younger, bulkier one whose face Stiles can’t quite see.  They stop in front of Derek, and the older one shoulders his crossbow nonchalantly.  He says something to Derek, which Stiles can’t quite make out, it sounds like a question.  Derek says something in response, and then the hunter is laughing.  

“One way to find out.” He says clearly, and shoots Derek with a Taser.

Derek throws back her head in agony, and Stiles figures the hunter was asking if she was human or wolf, because the electricity seems to have forced Derek into a partial shift.  When she looks back down at the hunters, her eyes flare red and Stiles can see claws and fangs. 

“An Alpha!  Good to know,” the hunter says calmly.  “Got a pack?  Or just running wild?”

For answer, Derek throws back her head and _howls._ The hunters take a step back, and as the sound fades (Stiles is pretty sure everyone in Beacon Hills heard that howl), Derek smirks down at the hunters and says,

“Start running, Hunter. They’re on their way.”

The older hunter laughs.

“Liar!” he says, cheerful, “You’d have called them before if you really had a pack.  Or,” he frowns, “or maybe they’re just not nearby.” He taps the Taser-gun against his palm and exchanges glances with his companion, who shrugs and says something inaudible.  The older one holsters the gun and hands off his crossbow, leaning down to pick up a thick branch from the forest floor.

“How many in your pack?”

“Fifty.” Derek spits defiantly, and then the hunter is swinging his makeshift bludgeon at Derek’s unprotected ribs.  Derek tries to get her legs up in time to block the swing, but doesn’t quite manage it and there’s a sickening _crack_ as the weapon makes contact.

“How many?” The hunter repeats, tone light, conversational.

Stiles catches a glimpse of his expression as he turns, and it frankly makes her skin crawl.

“I’m not worried, I just need to know so I don’t leave any of you behind.”

Stiles can _see_ Derek switching gears.  Her expression goes completely blank and she coughs wetly, but says nothing.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” the hunter says, drawing his arm back for another swing, “I can do this all day.”

Here’s the thing.

Stiles plays for the Beacon Hills women’s softball team.  She’s not very coordinated, and she’s a lousy batter, but Scott plays baseball in the spring when lacrosse is off season, so they play a lot of catch.  Stiles is not very good at _catching_ the ball, but she’s got a decent throwing arm.  

Stiles is moving before she’s realized she’s made a decision, scooping up a rock and lobbing it at the older hunter’s head as hard as she can.  He goes down with a distinctive _thump._

Stiles ducks behind her tree and grabs another rock as the younger of the hunters looks around frantically, crossbow at the ready.  Stiles chucks another rock as far as she can away from herself, rattling the bushes to the hunter’s left, and scrambles for another as the hunter spins to face the noise.  She’s about to bean him with her third rock when she accidentally steps on a twig and he whirls back to face her.

“ _Stiles_?” the hunter says, stepping back in surprise.

Stiles freezes, because she _knows this guy._ He’s in her grade at Beacon Hills High, new kid, Michaels, Brad Michaels, something like that.

Brad recovers himself faster than Stiles does, so it’s lucky for Stiles that Brad is standing with his back to Derek, and that his step backwards has brought him into range of her feet.  Derek kicks Brad in the head and the crossbow bolt he’d been aiming at Stiles thunks harmlessly into the tree next to her.

Stiles stares at Derek over the bodies of two downed (dead?  Oh my god has she _killed someone?_ ) hunters in shock.

“Move, Stiles!  Come on, get me down!” Derek snarls at her.

“Right, sorry,” Stiles says automatically, and stoops to grab a wicked-looking knife from Brad’s belt.   She holds the knife awkwardly in her teeth, hoping she won’t horribly injure herself, and leaps for the rope where it’s tied off to the tree-trunk.  Once she’s got it, she can hold the line with one hand, brace her feet against the tree and saw at the rope until it finally snaps, dumping both Stiles and Derek inelegantly onto the forest floor.  Derek has a more graceful landing than Stiles does (Stiles hits the ground hard and promptly falls over in a tangle of flailing limbs) but only just.  Derek’s hands are still tied and she stumbles as she lands, hunched painfully over her ribs and dodging the heavy, snaking fall of the rest of the rope.

Derek leans heavily against a tree while Stiles picks herself up off the ground and dusts herself off.  It’s a minor miracle that she managed not to impale herself on the knife when she fell.  Stiles picks the knife up again and moves over to Derek, eying the hunters nervously.

“Come on, gimme your hands,” Stiles says, with an impatient gesture.

Derek wordlessly holds out her wrists, which are a bloody mess where she’s been struggling with the rope.

“Ugh,” Stiles says, and for a moment she thinks she might have to cut the rope off of Derek, before she remembers that this is a trip-wire-lasso-thing, which means she should be able to just slide it off now that the tension is gone.  Stiles drops the knife and pulls the cord loose, flinging it away into the undergrowth.

“The hunters,” Stiles says, awkward, “Are they dead?”

“No,” Derek replies shortly, “Just unconscious.  I can hear their heartbeats.”

Derek looks a little sorry about that; Stiles isn’t sure how she feels herself.  It’s pretty clear they were going to kill Derek, and if they were going to kill Derek, they won’t draw the line at Scott, or any of the others.  They might not draw the line at _Stiles,_ if it comes to that.

“What do we do now?”

Derek gives Stiles a blank look, “We get out of here before they wake up, what do you _think_ we do?”

“I dunno,” Stiles shrugs, “I just thought…oh my god.” Stiles stares at Derek, revelation dawning.

“What?”

“You’ve – you’ve never actually killed anyone, have you?  Not really.”

Derek looks uncomfortable, then her hazel eyes go hard.

“I have killed people.” She says, so flatly that Stiles doesn’t dare push it.  “We should move, before they wake up.”

Stiles nods agreement.  Derek kicks at the rope and says, “Tie them up with this” and starts collecting their weapons.  Stiles has, like, _negative_ interest in the hunters waking up and chasing after them, so she scurries to comply, sawing the rope into manageable lengths and tying the hunters up as best she can.  Derek had been right about the wolfsbane – the rope is tacky against her skin, and it stains her fingers a tingling purple. It’s also pretty thick, as ropes go. It’s meant for, you know, dangling people from trees, not for restraining them, but Stiles gives it a shot.  She ends up staring down at the hunters, wiping her hands clean against her running shorts and eyeing the tangles of awkwardly tied knots doubtfully. 

Derek looks up from the - oh my god - small armory of weapons she’s collected and gives Stiles a distinctly unimpressed look.  But Derek can’t touch the rope herself without ill effects, so she just rolls her eyes, hands Stiles an armful of weaponry and says shortly, “Let’s go.”

Stiles hurries after her. 

“Dude, what’s with, you know, your hands.” Stiles pants, struggling to keep up with Derek’s long-legged stride. 

“Wolfsbane.” Derek replies tersely, “slows the healing.”

“Oh,” Stiles says, “Should we, like, wash that off or something?”

Derek halts so abruptly Stiles nearly crashes into her back and has to scramble not to drop her armload of (mostly) sharp, pointy objects.

“Do you have a portable tap with you?” Derek asks, pointedly, one arm wrapped protectively around her ribs.

“Uh, no.” Stiles admits, back-peddling. “Not, not so much.  But, um, we should do something about that, probably.  I have an emergency kit in my jeep and there’s a gallon of water in the back, in case the radiator goes or something.”

Derek grunts, which Stiles interprets as an affirmative, and then there’s silence until they reach Stiles’ Jeep.  Derek looks pretty wretched by the time they arrive.  Her skin is still kind of greyish and clammy-looking, and Stiles doesn’t much like the sound of her breathing. She pretty much looks the way she did after Kate shot her with that wolfsbane bullet, actually; Stiles is just hoping she won’t start vomiting black goo again. 

Derek drops her armload of weapons and Stiles follows suit, scrambling to unlock the jeep and retrieve the gallon of water in the back.  Derek snatches the water out of Stiles' hands, wrenches the cap off, gargles, and spits.  When she tries to pour the water over her abraded wrists one-handed, Stiles rolls her eyes and takes over.

“Give me that,” Stiles says, grabbing the jug back again, “God, you’re stubborn, just hold your hands out, I’ll pour.”

Derek flashes her eyes at Stiles, and Stiles only just stops herself retreating to a safer distance.  Instead, she holds her ground and glares. 

“Don’t give me that, Sourwolf!  Keep your creepy eyes and your fangs and your claws to yourself and hold out your hands.”

Grudgingly, Derek does.  Stiles pours the water over her wrists, and it seems to help because Derek’s breathing starts to even out and her skin loses some of its sickly cast, but the abrasions still aren’t healing.  Stiles stops pouring for a moment and considers. 

“You’ve probably got fibers in there,” she tells Derek apologetically.  “I think we need to clean this out with something.”

Derek’s eyes narrow, then she reaches out and grabs Stiles by the front of her t-shirt and rips a _giant chunk_ off of the bottom edge. 

“Here,” Derek says, as Stiles gapes at her, “use this.”

“Seriously?” Stiles splutters, “ _Seriously_?!  What’s wrong with _your_ shirt?  Oh my god, I swear, every time I get near you something gets broken or destroyed or covered in blood or - ” Stiles pauses to stab a warning finger at Derek’s chest, “You keep away from my Jeep, you hear?  No ripping up the seats or whatever because you need a spring or something.”

“Stiles,” Derek growls, “get on with it.”

Stiles grumbles, but she uses the piece of her t-shirt to clean the abrasions on Derek’s wrists, and by the time the gallon is nearly empty the skin is starting to heal again.

“Okay,” Stiles says, when Derek seems to be whole again, “What the hell are we doing with this...this _arsenal_?I can’t exactly keep it in the back of my Jeep.”

Derek thinks for a moment, still hunched a little protectively over her ribs, then says, “We’ll take them to the depot, leave them there.  We might be able to use them, if not, at least they won’t have them.”

Stiles is nodding before she thinks, tugging awkwardly at the ragged edges of her t-shirt, then she stops and looks up suspiciously.

“Wait, in _my_ Jeep?  Where’s _your_ car?  I’m not driving around with...with _contraband._ ”

“My car isn’t here,” Derek says slowly, like she’s explaining to a very slow child, “I was out running when I hit the trap, which is why you’re going to drive me, and the piles of pointy weapons, to the depot where we can keep an eye on them.  Now get in and drive.”

Stiles scowls, but does as she’s told, dumping the weapons in the back and climbing into the driver’s seat.  Just as she’s about to start the engine, she shifts and remembers her phone.

“Oh, shit, Scott!”

Stiles pulls out her phone and sees, with some trepidation, that she has three missed calls and a series of increasingly urgent texts from Scott. She sighs and hits call.

Scott picks up midway through the second ring.  He sounds like he’s running.

“Stiles?  Stiles, where are you?  There’s hunters?  Stay away from them, they’re-”

“Trigger happy,” Stiles cuts in, “Yeah, I know.  We’re actually fine now, don’t go in the woods!  We left them tied up by the west running trail.”

“We?” Scott says, still out of breath, “Derek’s with you?”

“Yeah, um. We grabbed all their weapons and stuff, Derek wants to take them back to her place.”

 “What?” Now Scott sounds annoyed, “You’re doing what? Nevermind, fine, I’ll meet you there.”

 

 

 

 

 

***

 

The first thing Scott says when they arrive is, “I’m still not in your pack, I only came because of Stiles.”

His expression is mutinous, and he only uncrosses his arms when Derek throws a crossbow at him.

“McCall!  Shut up and help unload.”

“You alright?” Scott asks Stiles, juggling the crossbow and ignoring Derek.   Stiles bumps him with her shoulder as a she passes in answer.  Scott’s new-found concern for Stiles’ welfare is equal parts frustrating and endearing.  He does mean well, but that doesn’t stop Stiles’ getting clobbered while he’s making out with Allison on a semi-regular basis.

“So,” Scott says, when they’ve piled all the weapons in a corner of one of the empty subway cars.  “New hunters in town?”

“Yes,” Derek says pointedly, “and they’re _not friendly_.  We all need to watch our backs.”

 “It’s that new kid,” Stiles adds, tugging distractedly at the ragged edges of her t-shirt, “Brad Michaels.”

Scott gives Stiles an incredulous look and Stiles shrugs. 

“I know, right?  Him and another dude, older.  Maybe a relative?  Brad was _really_ surprised to see me, that’s for sure, which -” Stiles breaks off at Scott’s raised eyebrows.  “Shit, yeah, he totally knows who I am.”

“Maybe they’ll just think you were passing through?” Scott offers, but even Scott’s eternal (and entirely unrealistic) optimism seems to be failing him, because he doesn’t sound very convinced.

“Yeah, maybe,” Stiles says dubiously, sneaking a glance at Derek, who seems to be entirely recovered now that she’s on her own turf.  “They were...pretty intense.  Watch your back, okay?”

“I’ll be fine,” Scott says, “We’ll keep an eye out.”

“We should stick together,” Derek says over her shoulder from where she’s arranging their confiscated weaponry in an inelegant pile.  “We’re stronger together, as a pack.”

Derek glares meaningfully at Scott, who stares right back with his usual stubbornness.

“I already told you I’m not interested,” Scott says, reaching out to tug Stiles closer to his side, “but I’ll look do my best to look after the others.” 

Derek snorts, says, “You do that,” and, to Stiles, “and you - stay out of the preserve until we get this sorted out.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Stiles says, rolling her eyes, and Scott tugs at her arm.

“Come on, Stiles, let’s go.”

Derek growls in frustration, and calls after them, “Just stay out!”

***

A few days later, Stiles is jogging in the woods again.  Stiles is nothing if not fundamentally contrary, and she likes the woods.  The alpha pack was dealt with months ago and things have been quiet, even if nobody quite knows what happened to Gerard.  Brad Michaels hasn’t been seen at school since the incident in the woods, and there can’t be _that_ many hunter-traps, can there?  

The point is, Stiles is more stubborn and contrary than she is terrified of lurking danger.  Hence, jogging. 

Still, she _was_ warned, so when she springs the trip-wire and finds herself dangling four feet off the ground by one foot, head spinning because she whacked it on the forest floor on the way to being yanked off her feet, she really has no-one but herself to blame.  She makes a wild grab for her cell-phone as it tumbles from the pocket of her windbreaker, but misses and spends nearly a full minute straining uselessly towards the ground and wishing for telekinesis. What, _werewolves_ exist, Stiles doesn’t think telekinetic powers is too much to ask.

Eventually she gives up, panting and dizzy, and starts trying to figure out how to get free.  The rope around her ankle is biting sharply into her skin and it kind of hurts a lot, so Stiles figures the first thing to do is try to ease the pressure.  She’s never been, like, a champion with sit-ups and whatnot, but she’s not a complete couch-potato, _obviously,_ so it’s difficult, but not impossible to bend herself in half and reach for the rope.  It takes several minutes, and a lot of swearing, and two near-disasters when Stiles’ sweaty palms almost lose their grip on the rope, but she manages to get herself upright.  She pulls herself up the rope hand over hand until there’s enough slack in the rope that she can wrap it around her free leg as an anchor.

At that point, Stiles pauses to catch her breath.  The blood-rush to her head is receding, but, looking up, Stiles is 99.9% certain she can’t climb all the way to the branch the rope is looped over.  This is why she needs to work out more, _this kind of thing exactly._ But there’s no way she’s making that climb, which means she’s going to have to keep the slack on the line to her trapped foot, maintain her free-foot anchor, and lean over far enough to untie herself, all without losing her balance…

A twig snaps and Stiles startles and nearly falls.  She tightens her grip on the rope and turns to see…The same two goddamn hunters.  Brad Michaels and…huh.  The older hunter looks a lot like Brad, plus beard, of course.  They both look a little worse for wear, and they stop a few feet away, assessing her.

“Dad, that’s Stiles,” Brad says after a moment, “The girl from the other day, I told you about her.”

Oh, goody, she was right.  Just what Stiles needs.  Another hunting family in Beacon Hills.

“Hi!” Stiles waves, and looks around for options.  There aren’t many.

“What are you doing?” Brad asks, as Stiles, realizing that she’s in ankle-grabbing range, starts forcing herself further up the rope.

“Uh, I thought I’d try to get out of this trap?” Stiles replies, attention on her climbing, “Not that this hasn’t been fun, but, you know, things to do, places to be…”

The older hunter, Mr. Michaels, apparently, calls up at her, “Come down here.”

Stiles looks down at him doubtfully and shakes her head.

“Nyuh uh.  I like it up here.”

Michaels shrugs, picks up a rock and raises his eyebrows at her.

“You like rocks, yes?”

Stiles swallows and glares at him.

“Not so much.”

He grins and throws it at her.

It’s a small rock, but it’s moving _very quickly_ and Stiles twists to avoid it, hands slipping on the rope...Stiles manages to evade the rock, but she loses her grip on the rope and falls, stopping with a jerk that hopefully hasn’t broken her ankle. Stiles sways gently from the end of the rope, fighting nausea and _dammit_ she’d put a lot of effort into getting right-side-up again. Stiles glares balefully.

“Serves you right,” Brad is saying, childishly vindictive. 

“You tried to shoot me!” Stiles says, indignant.  “In the face!  It was _this close._ ”  Stiles waves one hand, thumb and forefinger almost touching to demonstrate.

“You were trying to kill me!  And you’re a monster!” Brad argues back.  He seems oddly off-balance, especially since _Stiles_ is the one dangling upside down and helpless from a _tree._  

“Okay, first of all,” Stiles says reasonably, “I am _not_ a monster.  And secondly, you will notice that you’re still alive.  If we’d wanted to kill you, you’d be dead.”

Stiles bites her tongue the moment the words are out of her mouth, and blames the blood rush to the head.

“Ah, yes, your lupine friend.” Michaels says softly.

He steps into Stiles space and leans over slightly to look her in the face.

“Uh, hi,” Stiles says, crossing her arms defensively.  “What’s up?”

“Not a monster, huh?” Michaels says, skeptically, “So you’re claiming to be human?”

“Human?!” Stiles says, playing dumb for all she’s worth, “What do you mean, ‘human?!’, of course I’m _human,_ what are you some kind of UFO freak?  I was just out for a run – a totally innocent run!  In the forest!  For exercise!  And there’s this frickin’ _trip-wire_ trap and what the hell is that all about, anyway?”

“Don’t lie to me, girl.” Michaels warns, eyes suddenly cold.

Stiles shivers, crosses her arms tighter and says, “I’m not lying!  I swear, I’m really not.  And it’s ‘Stiles’ not ‘girl’ or ‘hey you’ or whatever.  Stiles Stilinski and if you could get me out of this rope-trap thing my _father the Sheriff_ and I would be very grateful.”

Michaels looks up at Brad, who shrugs affirmation.

“Yeah, she’s the Sheriff’s kid.”

Michaels looks back at Stiles thoughtfully.

“Huh,” he says, “well, if you _are_ human, there’s ways to test that theory.”

He pulls out a knife, identical, as far as Stiles can see, to the one she’d confiscated during their previous encounter.  Stiles jerks back, away from the knife, or, she tries anyway.  It’s not a very successful endeavor because while she swings backwards at first, the thing about dangling from a rope is that once you’re done swinging in one direction, you kind of have to swing _back_ the other way.  Stiles flails her arms and yelps.

 “Whoah, whoah whoah whoah, what’s that for?  You’re cutting me down from here, right?  Just, like, take it easy okay, I’d rather not land on my head and – _what are you doing?_ ”

“Werewolves heal very quickly,” the hunter tells her calmly, grabbing at Stiles’ right arm.  “Humans don’t.”

“ _Werewolves?!_ ” Stiles exclaims, and they better give her a fucking medal for her acting here, “Seriously are you crazy?  Get the hell away from me!”

“Quit squirming,” Michaels says, scoring a deep line across Stiles’ forearm, “you’ll only make it worse.”

Stiles ignores this advice in favor of spitting curses and snatching her arm back protectively as soon as Michaels lets her go.

“There!” Stiles says from between clenched teeth, trying to staunch the bleeding with her other hand, “No super-healing or whatever, are you _happy now?_ ”

Michaels straightens up and shakes his head in mock regret. 

"Well, looks like you're not lying about that, at least."

"Nope," Stiles agrees, "One hundred percent human.  Now can you get me down please?"

"Ah, not just yet." Michaels says slowly.  "There's still the little matter of your friend."

" _What_ friend?!" Stiles yelps, "Oh my _god,_ just get me out of this snare already!"

“Don't think so," Michaels says. He turns to Brad, who is looking a little uncertain about this turn of events. “Even if she’s not a werewolf, she’s definitely a sympathizer,” Michaels explains, “She’ll know where to find them.” Looking back down at Stiles, he says, “Who was that the other day?  Your friend who sprang our little trap?”

Stiles stares up at him for moment, then, when he raises his knife meaningfully, she says quickly, “Jane!  Jane, her name is Jane.”

“Jane.” Michaels repeats flatly. “Really.”

Stiles has a horrible sinking feeling in her stomach (or is it rising?  Being upside down is confusing) but she plows ahead anyway.

“Yeah, um, Jane MacPhearson, I don’t really know her that well, she’s just, like, around sometimes – ”

Stiles breaks off when Michaels fucking _gut-punches_ her.  Stiles wheezes for breath as Michaels turns raised eyebrows to his son.

“See?” He leans over again to be level with Stiles’ eyes and says, “Did you really think we wouldn’t figure out that was Derek Hale?”

Stiles figures she probably doesn’t have much to lose at this point, so when she can speak again she squints up at the pair of them and says, with as much insolence as she can muster, “I dunno, you look pretty stupid.  It was worth a shot.”

“You know,” Michaels says thoughtfully, tapping his knife, which is still stained with Stiles’ blood, against his thigh, “It’s not that your tongue needs loosening, it’s that the _quality_ of information is somewhat lacking.  I think - ” he raises the knife warningly and Stiles shuts her mouth with a snap, “I think I’m not very interested in hearing you talk, until you’ve learned not to lie to me.  And some better manners.”

Stiles glares, because her manners are _fine,_ thank you, and because taking offence seems more useful than gibbering in terror.  Stiles’ sense of self-preservation isn’t _completely_ defective though, and she wisely holds her tongue.

“So,” Michaels continues, “I’m guessing you know something about the Beacon Hills werewolf population.  Specifically, Hale and her pack.  Setting traps is, apparently, moderately useful, but names and locations are really much more helpful, don’t you think?”

Stiles bites back six different (supremely unhelpful) responses, and stays silent.

“Good, good,” Michaels says approvingly, “You’re learning.” He looks over at Brad and says, “You’re in school with her, who does she hang out with?  Some of them are probably wolves.”

Stiles swallows hard and looks beseechingly at Brad, who, _damn him,_ she’d _known_ there was something creepy about that kid, ignores her.

“Her best friend is Scott McCall.  They hang out with Isaac Lahey, Erica Reyes, and this kid Boyd.”

Stiles closes her eyes against the pounding in her head.  When she opens them, the forest seems darker.

“You’re both crazy,” she tries again, “they’re just my friends, not even friends, they’re just kids at school, they’re not, like, _supernatural beings_ or whatever.”

Michaels hits her again.  “I thought I told you I didn’t want to hear any more lies.” He admonishes her as she chokes and gasps for air.

Michaels pulls out what looks alarmingly like a Taser, twists a dial and says to Brad, “Keep a lookout.  Use the wolfsbane bullets.” To Stiles he says, “Feel free to scream, maybe your pack will come save you.  Or,” he smiles, “Perhaps they’ll try, anyway.”

Stiles, who had been considering screaming her head off for help, even though there’s probably no one near enough to hear, clamps her lips together tightly at the mention of _wolfsbane bullets_. Damned if she’s going to get anyone killed.  Michaels steps forward with the Taser and Stiles ducks her head to one side and bites down hard on the edge of her windbreaker. Then the Taser touches the bare skin of her arm, and everything whites out. 

She can feel electricity crackling along her skin, standing her short, pixie-cut hair on end.  Stiles plays sports, and she grew up getting into and out of trouble with one Scott McCall, and she’s had her share of bumps, bruises and scrapes.  She’s even broken a couple of bones, falling out of trees and such, but nothing has prepared her for this. 

When Stiles is able to bring the world into focus again, she finds her face is wet with tears she doesn’t remember shedding, soaking slowly into her hairline, and she has to spit out her mouthful of jacket in order to breathe because her nose is clogged.  She feels roughly like she’s been run over by a truck and she probably looks like a mad scientist.  An _upside down_ mad scientist.  Her throat is raw and aching.  Stiles sniffs, swallows, blinks to clear her vision. 

“Who’s in the pack?” Michaels asks, “Where does Hale live?  Do they have a headquarters?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Stiles says determinedly, and this time, when the Taser touches skin, Stiles does scream.

“Who’s in the pack?  Your friend Scott?”

“No!” Stiles gasps, head spinning, “No, he’s not part of the pack, there is no _pack,_ Derek’s the only one, I swear.”

Michaels lifts the Taser again and Stiles recoils, flinging out her un-injured hand in protest.

“No, no, wait, I’m telling the truth!  You must have heard about the Hale fire, the whole house burned down, everyone died except Derek and her sister, and her sister died too, earlier this year, so now it’s just Derek, I swear, I _swear_ she’s the only one.  I didn’t even know about the...weird wolf-thing until the other day when I saw...but I just, I wasn’t thinking, I barely even know her...” Stiles is babbling now, frantic, words falling over each other.

“She’s lying,” Brad says suddenly, “I remember seeing her with Hale, her and Hale and McCall, hanging around after school.”

“I’m not, I’m not lying!” Stiles protests desperately, but Michaels’ expression is set and he’s raising the Taser again and Stiles is pretty sure she’s going to die, brains fried in her skull when suddenly, from the leaves on the ground beneath her, comes the sound of her ring-tone. Stiles groans, and closes her eyes.  Michaels pauses, and leans down to pick up Stiles’ phone. 

“I think it’s for you,” he says, “Who is S.W.?”

“School friend,” Stiles says promptly, “Suzie White.  We’re supposed to be studying later.”

Behind the hunters, Stiles catches a flash of movement and forces herself not stare.  Meanwhile -

“There’s no Suzie White at Beacon Hills High, I memorized the roster.” Brad says, and Stiles is seriously going to kill him if she ever gets out of here.

Michaels flips the phone open, and Stiles just has time to yell, “They’ve got wolfsbane bullets!” before Michaels hits her with the Taser again and Brad screams and everything gets very fuzzy. 

When Stiles’ vision clears, Derek is standing in front of her, fangs and claws extended, blood on one cheek.  Her mouth is moving. Stiles thinks she might be asking a question and Stiles shakes her head to clear the ringing from her ears.

“’m sorry I laughed at you,” Stiles mumbles, somewhat incoherently, to Derek’s upside-down face, “this totally sucks.”

Derek rolls her eyes, which makes Stiles dizzy, and then she’s pressing a knife into Stiles’ hand and saying, “Stiles, come on, focus.  If I prop you up, can you cut the rope?”

Stiles nods, but she can’t quite get a grip on the handle, her fingers don’t seem to be working.  Also, any movement involving the use of abdominal muscles is clearly nixed for the foreseeable future.  Derek snarls in frustration and takes the knife back. 

Stiles watches blearily as Derek stalks over to the tree the other end of the rope is attached to and leaps.  There’s a tug on Stiles’ leg, and Stiles realizes she’s being pulled _higher up_ in the air and squeaks in inarticulate protest.  Derek snorts. 

“Don’t be a baby, Stiles, I’ll catch you.”

“Bad idea,” Stiles tries to say, “very _very_ bad idea...”

Derek ignores her, tugs her another couple of feet skyward and slashes the rope.  Then Stiles is falling headfirst towards the ground and she shuts her eyes against the impact, trying to shield her head with her arms. 

She doesn’t hit the ground.  Instead, she hits six feet of Alpha werewolf and gets the wind knocked out of her for the third time today. 

“Oof,” Stiles says, opening her eyes to meet Derek’s striking hazel gaze from, wow, like, inches away. “Thanks,” Stiles says, and follows it with, “You’re all fuzzy.”

“I’m _what?_ ” Derek asks, incredulous.

“Fuzzy,” Stiles says indistinctly, “also, I might pass out.”

“No.”

“ _No?!_ ” Stiles repeats, blinking up at Derek, indignation pulling her alert.  “What do you mean ‘no’?  You can’t just _order_ people not to pass out!”

“I believe I just did.” Derek says mildly.

Stiles scowls, because, _seriously?_ but the darkness at the edge of her vision is actually receding, so, huh, maybe you _can_ just order people not to pass out.  Who knew?

“Stiles.”

Stiles looks up again.

“Huh?  What?  Sorry.”

Derek rolls her eyes again, sighs.  “I said, can you walk?”

“Yes.” Stiles says, automatic. 

Derek raises both eyebrows skeptically, but puts her down.  Stiles takes all of one step and falls flat on her face.  She rolls onto her back, clutching at her abused ankle and making a series of what are probably extremely unattractive faces. 

“Ow ow ow ow _shit goddamn_ ow _fuck_.” Stiles hisses.  “Goddamn hunters and their goddamn traps and goddamn you too, Derek, _ow._ ”

When Stiles opens her eyes, Derek is crouched next to her.  Stiles isn’t sure but she looks like she might be smirking, just a little.

“My leg is broken,” Stiles says pointedly, “I’m crippled for life, possibly dying.  Quit smirking.”

Derek leans over, wraps cool hands around Stiles’ leg and _sniffs_ at her ankle.  She wrinkles her nose in distaste, and Stiles glares.

“Dude,” Stiles says, “You’re the one doing the sniffy thing, don’t give me that face.”

“There was wolfsbane on the rope,” Derek explains absently, “You smell like wolfsbane.”

“Oh.”

“Also, your leg isn’t broken, it’s just sprained.”  Derek informs her.

“What?  It is _so_ broken!” Stiles argues, “What do you know, genius?”

Derek stares back at Stiles, completely expressionless, and says, “I’d know if it was broken, I can smell the marrow.  It’s a very particular scent.”

Stiles is completely dumbfounded for all of six seconds, before she collects herself and says, “Right, okay. That’s gross.  Really, really gross, TMI, oh my _god_ you can smell the _marrow_?  No, stop, I don’t want to know.”

Derek just raises her eyebrows at Stiles pointedly, in a way that very clearly says, “Well, you did ask.” 

Behind Derek, one of the hunters moans, and Stiles jumps.  Derek’s expression goes stony and she gets up from her crouch and paces over to where Brad and his father are slumped on the ground.  Stiles cranes her neck, watching warily.

“Hunter,” Derek says formally, “I have neither killed a human, nor harmed any human except in self-defense, or in defense of my pack.  You are in violation of the Code.  Breach it again and I will not answer for the consequences.”

The conscious hunter, it’s the older Mr. Michaels, glares up at Derek and says, “I don’t bargain with monsters.  One day you won’t have a human pet to come rescue you, you’ll be off your guard.  If you kill us, every hunter in the country will hear of it and come down on your head.  It’s only a matter of time before we get you all.”

Derek stares down at him for a moment, then says tersely, “I wasn’t the one torturing a human child just now, you may want to reconsider your terminology.”

“No innocents in a war.” Michaels tells her, with all the frightening intensity of a True Believer.

Derek grins in a way that makes Stiles shiver, throws him a mocking salute, and knocks him unconscious with a quick, surgical blow to the head. Derek strips them of their weapons, packs everything into a bag Michaels-the-elder had been carrying, and moves back to Stiles’ side.  Stiles makes a face at her.  The sharp, blinding pain in her ankle has receded to a dull ache and she’s shifted from clutching at her leg to cradling her injured arm, which is a godawful mess.

“Still alive and kicking then, huh?”

Derek shakes her head, brows furrowed.

“He’s right, I kill them and I become fair game.  Under some readings, my pack becomes fair game too.”

“But they’re _cheating_!” Stiles protests, “It’s a rigged deck!  They get to come after you, but you’re not allowed to fight back or…they’ll still come after you?  This makes _zero_ sense.”

Derek glares.

“You think I don’t know that?” she snaps, frustration in every syllable, “Hunters and wolves have been enemies for literally thousands of years.  Sometimes wolves go rogue, become a menace to human society – Hunters deal with them if the pack can’t or won’t.”

“Like Peter.” Stiles says, automatic, then bites her tongue as Derek’s faces turns even more determinedly blank. “Sorry, I mean – ”

“Yes, like Peter,” Derek says.  “And sometimes Hunters go rogue, like…like Kate.  And wolves take them out if the hunters can’t or won’t rein them in.  But it’s dangerous – one rogue on either side can easily lead to all-out war and it’s…” Derek pauses.  “It never ends well.”

Stiles thinks it’s _already_ not going so well, what with Derek’s _entire family_ being dead and Derek trying to build a new pack from scratch.  Derek’s been backed into a corner here, Stiles realizes, she doesn’t really have a lot of options.

Stiles exhales a long, controlled breath.

“So, what are you going to do?”

Derek barks a humorless laugh and shoulders the bag of weapons. 

“Do?  I’m going to stay out of their way and try to keep my pack alive.  Unless you’d like to call your father in?”

“ _No!_ ” Stiles says, emphatic.   She didn’t tell him about Gerard, and she sure as hell isn’t going to tell him about this.  Stiles remembers watching Matt knock her father unconscious, while she was crawling helplessly on the floor, mostly paralyzed and terrified he’d be killed.

Stiles is jolted out of her thoughts when Derek suddenly frowns and grabs Stiles arm.

“Damn,” Derek says, letting go as Stiles yelps in protest. “Forgot about that.” 

Derek drops the bag of weapons, shrugs out of her jacket, and pulls off her shirt. 

“Wha- uh, Derek?  What are you doing?” Stiles is trying very hard not to stare.  Derek will never not be mildly terrifying, but she is _undoubtedly_ super hot.  Also, super ripped - Stiles would kill for those abs.  Also, let's be honest, Stiles would kill for that cleavage too.  Under the shirt, Derek is wearing a pretty standard black bra, but she looks like a Victoria's Secret model, where Stiles could (and has, on occasion) pass for a boy without too much effort, figure-wise.

Derek snorts, puts her jacket back on, zips it mostly closed, and says, “Give me your arm, Stiles, we need to stop the bleeding.”

Stiles holds out her arm tentatively, still half-afraid Derek will, like, rip it off or something.  But Derek just tears Stiles’ blood-soaked jacket away from the - oh, gross - _gash in her arm_ , and wraps her t-shirt around it.  She uses the pieces of Stiles’ jacket-sleeve to tie the makeshift bandage in place.  Stiles can’t help but be a _little_ bit impressed.

“What, hunters don’t carry first aid kits?”

“Nope.  Not these ones anyway.” Derek says, then adds as an afterthought, “Idiots.” 

Derek pushes herself upright, holds out one hand and says, “Up, Stilinski.  Let’s move.” 

Stiles takes the offered hand and allows herself to be pulled to her feet.  Well, one foot, anyway, she’s not just itching to repeat the whole painful collapse experience.  Derek watches her wobble unsteadily and gives another put-upon sigh.

“I’m going to have to carry you.  It’s at least two miles to your Jeep.”

Stiles winces, briefly contemplates hopping on one foot for two miles through the forest, with all of its tangles and snarls and roots hidden under fallen leaves and undergrowth, and gives a reluctant nod.

“Ah!” Stiles says, holding up a warning hand as Derek moves towards her, “If you sack of potatoes me I swear to god I’ll throw up all over you.  I’m done being upside down.” 

“Noted,” Derek says sardonically, and lifts Stiles like she weighs nothing.

It’s kind of hot, if Stiles is being _completely_ honest with herself.

Stiles keeps quiet until she _literally_ can’t stand it anymore, and then she starts talking, just to fill the silence.

"So nice timing, back there."

"Mmm." Derek says.

"You just happened to be in the woods?"

"I was patrolling," Derek says, "I heard you scream."

"Oh." Stiles can feel herself blushing; she's oddly embarrased. "Sorry."

"Sorry?"

"They said to go ahead and scream, they were going to shoot anyone who showed up.  I was trying not to."

"Don't apologize," Derek tells her, voice tight, and they fall silent for another quarter of a mile or so.

After a while, Stiles speaks up again.

“I’m not part of your pack either,” Stiles says to the underside of Derek’s chin, and Derek looks down at her.

“What did they want?” Derek asks, which is _so_ not on topic.

“What?”

“The hunters, what did they want?”

“Oh, uh, you know.  Wanted to know who you were and where you lived and who was in the pack, blah, blah, blah - Brad, that’s the younger one, he’s in school with us, new kid, and he’d noticed Scott and the betas, so they wanted to, I dunno, confirm membership or something?  You know. The usual, I guess.”  Stiles stares blankly down at her bandaged arm, where blood is stubbornly seeping through Derek’s t-shirt binding. 

“What did you tell them?” Derek isn’t looking at her, and her whole body feels tense.

“I - nothing.” Stiles says, “I mean, I lied a lot.  And, well, I kinda threw you under the bus - sorry, I just.  I tried to say I didn’t know who you were, but they’d already figured it out, and then they knew I was lying, and I tried to play dumb about the whole, you know, werewolf thing, but they already _knew_ you were a werewolf, so, I.  I said you were alone, that you were the only one.  I couldn’t - ” Stiles stops, swallows hard.  “I couldn’t think what else to do.”

Unaccountably, Stiles feels Derek relaxing against her.

“Did you or did you not just refuse under torture to give hunters information about the pack?”

Stiles shifts uncomfortably.

“Just because I don’t want you all _dead_ doesn’t mean I’m part of your pack.  Or that you get to tell me what to do.”

“You're involved.  You've involved yourself. It means you’re under my - our - protection.” Derek tells her, looking straight ahead. 

Stiles is silent, contemplating.

“I just don’t like bullies,” she mutters irritably, “and someone has to look out for Scott.  He’s hopeless, and he has all the rational decision-making skills of a drunk hedgehog.  Also, he has a Hero Complex.  It’s a bad combination.”

Derek snorts and Stiles squints up at her suspiciously. 

“You’re a bully too you know.  You bully me all the time.  And Scott.  And the betas.”

“I can still rip your throat out.” Derek reminds her easily, and Stiles makes a face.

“With your teeth, I know.” Stiles sighs wearily. “I hate to say this,” she says, aiming for sincere, “because I don’t want to burst your bubble or anything, but these threats of yours are getting _significantly_ less alarming over time.  Like, we’re talking exponential reduction in threat-terror ratio here.”

Derek grins down at her.

“Oh, really?”

Derek has a _lot_ of teeth.  They’re pretty impressive, actually.  Very white, very even, very, uh, sharp.

“Yikes,” Stiles mutters, “I take it back, you’re terrifying.”

“So long as we’re on the same page,” Derek says, sounding satisfied.

Eventually, they do reach Stiles’ Jeep.  Everyone has all their limbs attached and no-one has ripped anyone else’s throat out.  Stiles thinks that’s pretty good, considering. 

Derek puts Stiles down, and Stiles leans against the side of her Jeep for balance.  It feels like home, big and solid and comforting.

“Give me your keys.” Derek says, holding out one hand.

Stiles jerks her head up in alarm. “What? No!”

“Stiles.”

“It’s my car, I’ll drive her!”

Stiles glares.  _Nobody_ gets to drive her baby, except sometimes Scott if he’s been _really_ good.  But other than that, no one.

“Stiles, you’re not fit to drive a _tricycle_ right now.  Hand over the keys.”

“Or what?” Stiles starts to cross her arms, remembers she’s injured, and settles for awkwardly clutching her wounded arm to her chest and glowering extra-hard. 

“Or I’ll punch out a window and hot-wire it,” Derek tells her calmly, “Now _hand. them. over._ ”

Stiles gapes.

“You wouldn’t.  You’re bluffing, I bet you don’t even know how to hot-wire a car. Don’t you dare.”

Derek curls one hand into a fist and Stiles feels her eyes widen.

“No, stop!  Oh my _god_ you are _such_ a bully!  Fine, here, take them!”

Stiles digs her keys out of her zippered jacket pocket and throws them at Derek with ill grace. 

“Hurt my car and I’ll turn you into a throw-rug.” Stiles snaps, settling gingerly into the passenger seat and sulking aggressively while Derek walks around to the driver’s side. 

Derek eyes her dubiously from behind the wheel and says, “You do realize that I drive a much nicer car than this with no record of mishaps?”

“Whatever,” Stiles says, and shivers.  Her arm hurts, her ankle hurts, her skin feels scraped raw and now she’s _freezing._

Derek throws her a sidelong look, starts the engine, flips on the heat and pulls out her cell phone. Everything is starting to get somewhat fuzzy around the edges again.  Stiles leans her aching head against the window and zones out.   She tunes back in with a jolt when she hears Scott’s name.

“Scott?” Derek’s voice is harsh, “If you won’t join my pack that’s your choice, but you damn well need to look out for your own pack.  I just caught those two hunters from the other day using Stiles as a punching bag.” Derek pauses, listens. “I’m taking her to the hospital, she needs stitches.  Tell your girlfriend I need to talk to Argent.”

“Wha- hospital?  No, no, they’ll call my dad...”

“You’ll make something up,” Derek tells her unsympathetically.  “Shut up and go back to sleep.”

Stiles doesn’t have the energy to argue, so she closes her eyes and lets herself drift.  Eyes still closed and fading fast, Stiles hears herself say, “Thank you, for the rescue.”

Derek’s “Shut up, Stiles”, has less bite than usual, but Stiles is too tired to analyze what it means.

Stiles wakes up as they’re pulling into the hospital parking lot.

Derek parks and gets out of the Jeep, and the thought of being _carried into the hospital_ is a shot of mental adrenalin that wakes Stiles right up.  She’s fumbling with her seatbelt and slithering out onto the pavement before Derek can get to all the way around to Stiles’s side.

“Nope,” Stiles says firmly, “I will not be carried.  It is _just too pathetic._ ”

“Gonna crawl?”

Derek is definitely smirking.

“I’ll hop.” Stiles replies, with dignity. 

“Sure you will,” Derek says, and pulls Stiles’ left arm over her shoulders.  She wraps an arm around Stiles’ waist and says, “Ready when you are, Thumper.”

“Seriously?  You pick _now_ to start making jokes?”

Stiles gives Derek a vicious side-eyed glare, which Derek returns with a smirk.  She tentatively tries putting weight on her injured leg and gives it up immediately as a bad job.  Stiles sets her jaw and hops determinedly. 

Derek ends up carrying most of her weight anyway on the short walk to the hospital entrance, and then there are fortunately a fleet of available wheelchairs, the nearest of which Stiles sinks into gratefully. 

“Do something about your hair!” Derek hisses at her as they approach the reception desk, “You look like a deranged squirrel.”

“I _do not_ , _”_ Stiles hisses back, pawing at her head.  From the way Derek sighs, she’s probably just making it worse. 

“Now you look like a _rabid_ deranged squirrel...oh, just stop, Stiles you’re getting blood _everywhere_.”

They’re interrupted by Melissa McCall, who intercepts them before they reach the reception desk.  Mrs. McCall takes one look at Stiles - who winces and waves at her with her best “I’m totally innocent” smile - and hustles them into the nearest empty room.  From angry set of Mrs. McCalls’ lips, the Innocent Smile is not helping. 

“Stiles!  What the hell happened to you?  Or should I say, _who_ happened to you?” Mrs. McCall rounds on Derek.  “Did you do this?”

Stiles’ respect for Mrs. McCall goes up about ten notches, because while the Sheriff still doesn’t know about werewolves, Mrs. McCall definitely does.  Stiles’ relationship with Scott’s mom is a little fraught due to _years and years_ of getting poor asthmatic Scotty into trouble, but now Mrs. McCall is fearlessly confronting a _known werewolf_ and sometime-criminal-suspect over Stiles’ health and well-being.   It’s kind of heart-warming, really.

“No,” Derek replies shortly, “Why would I bring her in if I was the one responsible?”

Mrs. McCall narrows her eyes suspiciously, and says, “Stranger things have happened.”

It’s shaping up to be a regular stand-off when Stiles waves a hand to get Mrs. McCall’s attention and says, “No, it’s fine, it wasn’t Derek, it was, uh.  I was running, in the woods, and I tripped and twisted my ankle, and Derek happened along and found me and drove me here.”

“Uh-huh.” Mrs. McCall is clearly unimpressed. “What happened to your arm?”

“Oh, uh...Right, so, when I twisted my ankle I fell and, um, I hit a really sharp branch on the way down, and it really ripped my arm up.  And, actually, it's kind of excessively painful, so if you could do something about that, that would be _great_.”

Mrs. McCall is unwrapping Derek’s makeshift bandage, and she looks from Stiles’ arm to her face and back again skeptically.

“This is an extremely clean cut, Stiles.  There’s no splinters or anything.”

“Fancy that.” Stiles says weakly.

“It looks like a knife wound.”

“Does it?”

Stiles’ voice comes out higher than usual, and she shoots a panicked glance at Derek, who looks like she’s mentally banging her head against the wall.

“And your hair...you look like you stuck your finger in socket...Stiles, I’m calling your father.”

“What? No!” Stiles yelps, grabbing at Mrs. McCall's arm. “No, don’t do that.  It’s fine, it’s just, um, just an accident, there’s no need to bother him, you can just, like, patch me up and send me on my merry way, no problem.”

“Stiles.” Mrs. McCall’s voice is sympathetic.  “It’s hospital policy and you’re a minor.  You know the rules.”

Stiles is just marshaling her forces to argue that rules are made to broken!  What’s a little patching up on the sly between parents and their children’s best friends? when Scott comes barreling in and skids to a stop at the sight of Stiles sitting on a hospital table and waving sheepishly. He looks from Stiles’ bloody arm, to her wild hair, to Mrs. McCall, to Derek, and back to Stiles again.

“Derek said you need stitches,” he says urgently, “What did those hunters do to you?  You look awful!”

Stiles groans and drops her head into her free hand.  Across the room, she’s pretty sure Derek is doing one of her full-body eye-rolls.

“Thanks, Scott,” Stiles mutters through her fingers, “You’re the stealthiest of them all.”

“Hunters?” Mrs. McCall is saying, “You mean like Gerard and the Argents?  Stiles, what -”  While at the same time Scott is (totally unfairly) getting all up in Derek’s face.

“You!  How could you let this happen?”

“How could _I_?” Derek asks, incredulous, “She was protecting _you_ , you teenaged imbecile -”

“It was totally my bad,” Stiles breaks in, trying to head things off at the pass, “I went out running by myself -”

“Against my _express instructions,”_ Derek cuts in, and Stiles glares, stung, feeling her face flush.

“Whatever,” Stiles mumbles, “it’s a free country, I should be able to go _jogging_ without getting _mugged by psychotic hunters.”_

Derek rolls her eyes skywards like she’s hoping to find reserves of patience embedded in the ceiling and says, “Yes, but there _are_ psychotic hunters, and you - you too, McCall! - have _got_ to be more careful.” 

Stiles stares down at her lap sullenly, Scott shuffles his feet, and Mrs. McCall, who is watching the exchange with extreme interest, clears her throat pointedly.

“Right,” Mrs. McCall says briskly, “Stiles, you’re going to call your father, and then I’m going to stitch this up and take a look at your ankle.”  
“Fine,” Stiles sighs, defeated, and digs out her cell.

Mrs. McCall frowns, Scott fidgets and Derek looms as Stiles reluctantly calls her father and winces her way through an entirely fabricated explanation of how she ended up at the hospital.  Since her father isn’t there to see the gash on her arm, he’s not going to call her on the lack of splinters. 

By the time Stiles hangs up and holds out her arm for stitching, Mrs. McCall’s lips are set in an unhappy line.

“I really should tell your father about this,” Mrs. McCall mutters, “It’s my responsibility as a parent.”

Stiles exchanges a panicked glance with Scott and says, “No, no, that’s a really bad idea.  This is werewolf business and we just...we don’t want...the fewer people involved the safer it is for everyone.”

Mrs. McCall gives Stiles a hard look, then shifts it to Scott, who squirms.

“Can you promise me you’ll stay away from these...these hunter people?” She asks.

“It’s not like we go _looking_ for them - ” Stiles starts, then, catching the full brunt of Mrs. McCall’s glare (and Derek's frustrated growl) she says quickly, “But yes, totally, we will absolutely avoid them like the plague.”

Mrs. McCall looks back to Scott, who is nodding vigorously, and snorts.  She puts the last stitch in, bandages Stiles’ arm with the ease of long practice, and says, “Stiles, you will tell your father what’s going on here, or _I will._ ”

Stiles starts to protest, and across the room, Derek tenses, but Mrs. McCall turns to her and snaps, “No, you keep quiet.  If you’re going to be dragging these kids into danger, her father at least has a right to know about it.” 

Stiles feels that this is a _little_ unfair, since most of the trouble she gets into is, like, at least seventy percent her own fault.  Well, maybe fifty percent.  The rest is _definitely_ Scott and Derek these days.  Derek subsides though, looking mildly guilty.

“But,” Stiles tries, “do you really want Beacon Hills law enforcement to know about, about _werewolves?_   You were freaked out at first, how do you think they’ll react?  What if they want to ship Scott off to some government testing program or something?”

Derek twitches at that and Scott looks alarmed.

Mrs. McCall hesitates for a moment, but then she rallies, fixes Stiles with a stern look and says, “Really, Stiles?  I think you’re underestimating your father, don’t you?”

Stiles looks away, panic clawing at her throat.

“He’ll get _involved,_ ” she says, hopelessly, “He has no idea what’s out there and once he’s in the middle of it...”

Stiles breaks off and focuses on breathing. Mrs. McCall is regarding her with sympathy.  Scott looks as though he’d rather be anywhere but here, and Derek is studiously examining the wall.

“Don’t you think he might be safer if he _did_ know what was out there?” Mrs. McCall asks gently.

Stiles looks up at her and says flatly, “No.”

“I think you might be wrong about that,” Mrs. McCall tells her, “But in any case, you’re his daughter and he has a right to know if you’re in danger.  So you tell him, missy, or I’ll do it for you.  And believe me, however he reacts hearing this from you, I _guarantee_ it will be worse coming from me.  Now hold out your leg.”

Stiles complies miserably, catches Scott’s eye over Mrs. McCall’s shoulder.  He shrugs at her, mouths, _maybe it won’t be so bad._   Stiles glares and stares down at her lap until Mrs. McCall is done.

It turns out Derek was right - her ankle’s not broken, just sprained.  Mrs. McCall shows Stiles how to wrap it with an ace bandage, tells her to ice it off and on until the swelling goes down, and releases her.

The sheriff is on-duty, and Stiles took great care to assure him that she was fine, it was just a stupid jogging-in-the-woods accident, so he doesn’t come to the hospital.  Scott and Derek help Stiles limp out to the parking lot, and into her jeep.  Stiles is woozy and still unfit for driving, so she reluctantly hands her keys over to Scott.

Derek stops them before Scott can peel out of the lot with one hand on the open door of the driver’s side.

“Scott,” she says, “I need to talk to Argent.  I mean it.”

Scott nods, and then they’re off, leaving Derek a diminishing figure in the rearview mirror.

It’s a quiet ride for the first five minutes.  Scott is fuming and Stiles is miserably and antsy.  Eventually, Scott says awkwardly, “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” Stiles says dully.  “I just don’t want to tell my dad.”

Scott grimaces sympathetically, and tries, “Well, maybe my mom is right and it would be better for him to know.  He can’t protect himself if he doesn’t know what’s out there, right?”

“On the other hand,” Stiles says acidly, “he can only throw himself into dangerous situations if he _knows they exist_.  Fortunately, being a small-town Sheriff is _totally_ adequate preparation for supernatural monsters and the freaks that hunt them... _oh wait._ ”

Scott winces, and they spend the rest of the ride in silence. 

 

 

 

 

 

***

 

It is...actually surprisingly easy to set up a meeting.  Scott talks to Allison, who tells her father about Stiles, and hey, presto, Werewolf-Hunter roundtable. It’s all very smooth and efficient and no one gets mauled, or shot with wolfsbane bullets, which is a new and interesting development.  Allison and Derek both report to Scott, who reports to Stiles that Chris agreed to talk to the new hunters, warn them to stick to the code or else.  Three days later, Allison tells Scott (who tells Stiles and then Derek) that the Michaels clan has agreed to abide by the code.  Brad shows up in school again, sullen and bruised, keeps his distance from everyone.  Stiles makes sure to glare extra-hard at the back of his head during Chem, and spends more time than she probably should concocting elaborate curses involving Brad’s intelligence, ancestry, hygiene, moral character, and relative attractiveness as opposed to hippopotami. 

Scott or one of the betas sticks with her at all times while they’re at school, and Stiles’ sprained ankle keeps her off the jogging trails in the preserve even without Derek’s threats, warnings and imprecations. 

It feels like a standoff.  Everyone is tense, including Scott, whose thoughts and mood at any given time tend to revolve pretty directly around Allison.  The hunters are just waiting for one of them to mess up, so they’re all scrupulously careful, but Stiles is sure it’s only a matter of time before the other shoe drops. 

Every few days Scott casually asks if Stiles has gotten around to telling her father about the supernatural side of Beacon Hillls.  Stiles does her best to give him the run-around (honestly, it’s not that hard).  She avoids Scott’s mom and hopes to hell that Scott failing three classes will keep her too distracted to follow through on her threat to talk to Stiles’ father herself.  

 

 

***

 

It’s Friday night, the night before the full moon - a big, harvest yellow - when Stiles’ father comes home from the station, scowls at the salad Stiles is making with _actual vegetables_ and says absently, “You know the Hale girl is wanted by the Federal Marshalls?”

Stiles stops tossing the salad and stares at him blankly.

“What?”

“The Hale girl, Derek Hale.  US Marshals took her in today.  She’s apparently wanted in four states for arson.  Funny it never came up on our records,” he muses, “but she was pretty clever about it. It’s a pity, that girl” Stiles’ father shakes his head, “That thing with her family - the fire must have snapped her, somehow.”

“Wha- how...” Stiles can’t quite get her voice to work.  “What US Marshals,” she manages eventually, “Who were they?”

“Agent Michaels took her in.  Said she attacked his boy, Brad - he’s a classmate of yours, isn’t he?  You’re lucky she was in a good mood when she found you in the woods –sounds like she attacked the Michaels boy just before she found you.”

“Did she.” Stiles says, numb.

“Yeah,” Stiles’ father says, getting out a pair of bowls, “Think you dodged a bullet there, kiddo - hey.  Are you alright?  Stiles, it’s fine, they took her into custody.  It was a little close there, but it’s fine.”

“No, I - I’m just surprised, that’s all.” Stiles lies, awkwardly. 

She wishes now that she’d told him everything.  It’s too late now, to change her story.  He’d never believe her, even with Scott to back her up.  One thing Stiles has learned as the Sheriff’s daughter is to always, _always_ get your story in first, and she’s left it far too long. Even if she convinces him of werewolves, he’ll still think Derek’s dangerous, better off where she is. He’d probably be right.

“Well,” Stiles’ father says cheerfully, “Not our problem now.  Ready to eat?” 

“Yeah,” Stiles mutters, clicking through options in her head, “Yeah, but quick dinner, I have a ton of reading for tomorrow.”

Stiles sends an emergency text to the pack, and to Allison as well, even though Stiles thinks it’s pretty doubtful Chris will be interested in helping to save Derek from the (fake) law.

Stiles eats fast enough she’s in serious danger of choking, and earns herself a suspicious look from her father.  Stiles just shrugs and checks her phone compulsively.  She gets a terse message from Scott a few minutes later that just says, “On it”, which, Stiles could _kill_ Scott, that is _not useful information._ She’s in the middle of tapping out a furious reply when she gets a text from Boyd with more details.  This one says, “We’re tracking her, got a lead by the quarry” which mollifies Stiles somewhat. 

When she’s done eating Stiles bolts for her room, and waits, fingers drumming nervously, for news or calls for backup, whichever comes first.  When the house phone rings Stiles barely even registers it until her dad knocks on the door and says, “Stiles?  It’s for you.  Someone from school.”

“What?” Stiles says, “I’m busy, tell them I’ll call them back.”

“Okay,” Stiles’ dad says, “But they seem pretty insistent.  He says it’s something about Scott.”

“ _What?_ ” Stiles says, and snatches the phone.  Her father backs out of her room with a mildly confused expression as Stiles snaps into the phone, “What?  Who is this?”

“We have a mutual friend,” Special Agent Fake US Marshall Michaels says from the other end of the line.

Stiles freezes, then says icily, “You realize it’s a crime to impersonate an officer of the law, right?” 

“Who says I’m impersonating?”

“Yeah, right,” Stiles snorts, “and I’m the Tooth Fairy.  You made up all the stuff about Derek being a frickin' _arsonist,_ why should I believe you about your job?”

“As I said,” Michaels continues smoothly, “We have a mutual friend with a furry little problem.”

“I thought Chris Argent already explained the rules of this game,” Stiles says, gripping the phone hard, “Derek hasn’t hurt _anyone,_ you are _out of line._ ”

“Now Ms. Stilinski, just calm down, we haven’t done anything to her.” There’s an angry snarl in the background and Michaels amends quickly, “Well, nothing _much._ Not yet anyway.”

“What do you want?” Stiles says, when she can speak without shouting. 

“We’re keeping our end of the bargain,” Michaels says smoothly, “but we came across your friend and she’s...not herself, shall we say.  If you want her back you should come out to the preserve - there’s a cabin by the lake, on the south side.”

“You didn’t _come across_ her, you _arrested her,_ like the lying fake liars you are.” Stiles hisses, furious.

“Semantics,” Michaels says, and Stiles can hear the shrug in his voice, “If you want her back you know where to find her.  I’d make it snappy though, she’s not looking so good.”

“Wha - _why not_?” Stiles is trying (and kind of failing) to keep her voice down.  “ _What’s wrong with her?”_

“See you soon, Stiliniski.” Michaels says, and hangs up. 

Stiles stares at the receiver in her hand while she takes a deep breath and resists the urge to throw the phone at the wall.  She sends a text to the pack, grabs her track jacket off the bed and heads out.  The quarry and the lake are in opposite directions, she’ll probably be the first one there, even assuming the others still have reception that deep in the preserve. Stiles grinds her teeth.  She’ll just have to wait for the others to show up. 

“Heading to Scott’s?” Stiles’ dad asks mildly from the kitchen table, looking up from a set of files.

“Yeah, uh, he needs help with a project and he wants to vent about Allison.”  Stiles rolls her eyes in feigned irritation. 

“Okay,” her dad says, eyes sharp. “Drive safe.”

He’s too good a cop not to know something is up, but he hasn’t decided to push the issue.  Not yet, anyway, but Stiles knows her time is running out.  She winces internally, darts over to kiss him goodbye.

“Don’t strain your eyes,” Stiles warns as she heads out the door, “and stay away from the popcorn, I know exactly how many packets we have!” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Stiles hears him mutter, “Tyrant.”

For a second, Stiles allows herself a grin, then she slides into the jeep and high-tails it for the lake. 

 

 

***

 

Stiles parks a couple of miles out, because she’s not _stupid._ It does mean that she has to hike through the woods in the dark, which is unfortunate because her ankle is still a little weak.  She makes her way slowly, jumping at every sound, and hoping the only werewolves out tonight are _her_ werewolves.  If all she has to do is avoid the (only human!) hunters, she _might_ be okay, at least until the others show up.  She slides from tree to tree, keeping a sharp eye on her footing, and stopping every few yards to check her phone compulsively, glowing screen shaded by the wing of her track jacket. 

She stops when she gets close enough to see the cabin.  The whole place is dark, and Stiles hesitates, chewing her lower lip uncertainly.  She crouches, checks her phone again and shakes it in frustration when it comes up with no service.  If the hunters called her from here, how the hell did _they_ get service?  Or, maybe they didn’t, maybe they called from somewhere else...but if they were telling the truth and Derek is in that house somewhere...

Stiles knows better than to think that “dark” means “unoccupied.”  Going to check it out is probably a trap, and she’d told the others to meet her here.  Stiles has no intention of going it alone - she’s out here, riding to the rescue, but she’s waiting for backup to show before she faces off with a bunch of armed hunters.  Stiles is impulsive, not _suicidal._

Stiles settles in at the base of a tree to wait. 

Half an hour later she’s stiff and shivering and starting to wonder if something’s happened to the others, if this was just some kind of ploy to get her out the of way...it doesn’t even make sense because Stiles is not dangerous at all, there’s no real _reason_ to want her out of the way of anything, and the cabin does look awfully still, maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to go over and check it out -

Stiles is debating with herself whether or not to take the chump move and examine the creepy probably-not-actually-deserted cabin when there’s a sudden breeze.  Stiles shivers and pulls her track-jacket (red and white are seriously not very stealthy, Stiles doesn't know what she was thinking) closer and looks up in time to see the almost-full moon rising through a break in the clouds.  Stiles wants to think that it’s coincidence that it’s at that exact moment she hears a howl from the cabin, but chances of that are slim. 

It’s somewhat muffled, but even so the sound reverberates throughout the forest, and Stiles can hear all the normal sounds of the woods stilling in its wake.  On the plus side, while Stiles is no expert at deciphering the finer nuances of howling, it sounds more angry than it does pained. Stiles hopes Derek is giving those bastards hell. Stiles checks her phone again - still nothing - and looks back towards the cabin, torn.  What if she waits too long?  They had said to come alone, maybe they really just want to make a point...or maybe they’re _killing Derek right now_...Stiles takes two steps towards the cabin, out from the protecting shadow of her tree, and whirls around at the sound of first one howl, then another, then a veritable chorus of howls from the direction of the quarry.  The quarry is miles off, and the sound is muted, but it’s unmistakably werewolves. More specifically, werewolves _in trouble._

“ _Scott.”_ Stiles gasps and turns to bolt - only to run face-first into a gloved fist that knocks her sprawling.  

“Ms. Stilinski,” Michaels says with satisfaction, as he hauls her to her feet and shoves her toward the cabin, “good of you to join us, we’ve been wondering where you were.”

“Yeah, terribly sorry to keep you waiting,” Stiles says sarcastically, one hand over her throbbing cheekbone, then, “Ow!  Hey, there’s no need for that, I’m not even _armed_.” as Michaels cuffs her sharply.

Stiles wasn’t lying, she’s not armed.  Not being a Hunter’s daughter, her dad doesn’t let her carry guns outside of bi-annual trips to a shooting range, and he keeps his own weapons securely locked in a safe Stiles has always known better than to break into. Stiles isn’t trained in cross-bow and kung-fu or whatever Allison’s got going on and honestly, she was pretty much hoping that this little expedition wouldn’t require much more than her wits.  Well, that and fanged, furred and be-clawed backup.  Stiles had _really_ been hoping for backup, but it sounds like _backup_ might need backup and at this rate Stiles is about...sixty percent certain they’re all toast.  She’s starting to think she should have just stayed home.

Michaels opens the door to the cabin, and now Stiles can see why it had looked so dark - they’ve got blackout shades over the windows and even the cracks under the door are well sealed.

“Impressive,” Stiles says, “I genuinely thought this place was empty.”

Michaels cuffs her again and Brad looks up from the corner where he’s oiling a crossbow with a worn-looking rag. 

“You found her,” Brad says. 

“Yep,” Michaels answers.  “Come on, we’ll take her to see our guest.”

Stiles knows this cabin.  It’s been here for years, and every time someone throws a bonfire by the lake it gets used as a backup rain shelter and general stuff-depository.  The cabin is always open and there’s nothing in it to steal, but it’s somehow always in good condition.

The cabin is also, apparently, a stop on the Hunter’s Circuit or whatever.  Michaels Junior and Senior escort her down into the root cellar and, huh.  Hale house isn’t the only building in Beacon Hills with its own underground tunnels, apparently.  There’s a tunnel behind a wall of shelving, cleverly concealed under a thick wall of netting. 

Down a short, wood-paneled hall, lit by a mess of jerry-rigged wiring attached to bare bulbs, the space opens up to reveal a concrete cube of a room, one side of which is entirely composed of heavy iron bars with single door.  The tunnel goes on, but Stiles isn’t paying attention, because inside the cell is Derek.

She looks - she doesn’t look _hurt,_ but she doesn’t look right either.  She’s crouched in the far back corner of the cell and as they approach, she springs at the door with a snarl.  Stiles jumps as Derek hits the bars and rebounds, but Michaels just laughs.

Staring through the bars, watching Derek pace manically, throwing herself occasionally at the walls, the iron bars of the cell, Stiles whispers, “Oh my god…what did you _do_ to her?”

“Special brand of wolfsbane,” Michaels tells her, with great satisfaction.  “We mixed it up ourselves.  Especially potent on the full moon.  It ensures, ah.  Lack of control.  Brings out the wolf.”

“Why the _hell_ ,” Stiles wants to know, “would you do that?  Don’t you people _exist_ to protect the innocents from the wolves?  Why put, I don’t know, _absolutely everyone_ in danger?”

Michaels smirks at her. Brad looks slightly uncomfortable, and Stiles glares at him especially hard.

“Sometimes it’s useful.  Like now.  Argent would run me out of town and blackball me in hunting circles if I broke the code on his watch.  I’m just…giving things a little nudge.”

“Wait, _what?_ ” Stiles says, astounded, “Wait, oh no, you’re not putting me in there with her, not like that!  You’re supposed to _protect_ humans!  She’ll rip me apart, the state she’s in!”

From inside the cell Derek turns and growls at them, low and menacing.  There is absolutely nothing human in the murderous red of her eyes, she looks completely feral.  Stiles shivers and tries to back away, but is stopped by a steely grip on her arm.

“Now now,” Michaels chides, “I thought you were on their side?  You _like_ consorting with the monsters.”

“First of all,” Stiles says, “ _Consorting?_ Really?  Where do you even get this shit?  And secondly, I’m not _stupid,_ and I don’t typically _drug werewolves_ into losing control and then pal around with them in the moonlight.”

“Ah, well,” Michaels says, with false sympathy, “Cheer up, your death will be for a good cause.  It will give us exactly the excuse we need to wipe out the rest of the little nest that’s been breeding here.”

Before Stiles can protest, he unlocks the cell door, shoves Stiles through, and locks it again behind her.  Stiles swallows hard and presses her back against the bars of the door, keeping a wary eye on Derek, who is glowering at her from the far corner, eyes glowing brightly from the depths of the shadows.  From behind her, Michaels jabs at her with his stupid hunter’s dagger, forcing Stiles to move away from the door and further into the cell.

“Uh, heeeey, Derek,” Stiles tries shakily, as Derek’s growling increases in volume.  “It’s me, um.  Stiles.  Your friendly, local, _very breakable_ human. You really, really don’t want to eat me, I swear.  It’s a bad idea, you’ll regret it in the morning…you’ll _probably_ regret it in the morning and uh, no one will ever want to join your pack if they find out you maul innocent young girls and, oh my god, no stay in your corner like a _nice_ vicious bloodthirsty drugged up werewolf and we’ll just wait for this to wear off…”

Derek emerges from her corner, mostly wolf, crouched over and padding forward in a way that looks very much…very much like _stalking prey._ Stiles edges away from her, hands outstretched, placating, babbling anything she can think of that might get through to Derek in this state.  She’s still looking frantically for something to use as a weapon, _anything,_ when Derek leaps at her.  Stiles lands hard, head cracking against the concrete floor, blinking away the spots in her vision as she tries to catch her breath.  Above her, Derek’s claws are cutting into her shoulders and Derek’s fangs are _centimeters away_ from Stiles’ face and she’s growling the growl of eminent doom.

“Don’t,” Stiles gasps, “Don’t, Derek, _please_ …I know I said I wasn’t pack but I totally take it back now.  I’m pack I’m pack I’m pack and we don’t eat pack, I’m almost positive I heard that somewhere, Derek, you don’t want to do this, don’t, d-don’t give them the satisfaction, you’d be giving them what they _want_ and they’ll kill you, they’ll kill _the pack_ if you do _-”_ Stiles whimpers in the back of her throat as Derek’s claws dig deeper. “Derek,” she says, pleading, “you’re _hurting me._ ”

 Derek is snarling in her face now, and all Stiles sees in her eyes is wolf.  Stiles chokes back a sob and, as Derek draws back for the kill, forces herself to go completely limp.  What Stiles really wants to do is curl up like a potato-bug, but she can’t, not if she wants any shot at survival.  Instead, she lets her hands fall to the side from where she’d been shoving desperately (and fruitlessly) at Derek, closes her eyes, and turns her head deliberately to the side, raising her chin and baring her throat.

For a moment, nothing happens.  Stiles waits, trembling, breathing ragged…and then the tenor of Derek’s growl changes.  Eyes still closed, Stiles feels Derek lower her head, feels Derek’s fangs brush the – oh my god so exposed – side of her neck.  Stiles is fully expecting Derek to rip her throat out, with, as she’s promised many times before, her _teeth…_ what Derek does instead is _sniff_ at her.  Now, instead of fangs, Stiles can feel the cold tip of Derek’s nose, nudging against the side of her throat, snuffling under her ear.

“Pack,” Stiles whispers, “Pack, pack, _pack”_ and shivers as Derek _licks_ her, a long, wet stripe up the side of Stiles’ neck.  

Cautiously, Stiles lifts one hand.  She freezes as Derek growls at the unauthorized motion, sniffs at Stiles’ fingers, then butts her head against Stiles’ hand.  Stiles buries her fingers in Derek’s thick, dark hair, scratching a little, soothing, and starts breathing again.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Stiles hears, from outside the cell.   

Abruptly, the claws that are still buried in the flesh of Stiles’ shoulders withdraw as Derek shifts from pinning Stiles to the floor to crouching over her protectively, snarling at the hunters standing so infuriatingly out of reach.

Stiles moans at the pain in her shoulders and this time she _does_ curl up like a potato-bug, palms pressing against the gashes Derek’s claws left behind.

There’s a whistle and a _thunk_ above her, and Stiles flinches, curling more tightly into herself as Derek howls in pain.  Risking a glance up, Stiles sees an arrow lodged in Derek’s shoulder.  As Stiles watches, Derek shifts completely into wolf form.  This is not the half-shift Stiles is used to from Scott, or even the full-moon shift, nor yet the raging monstrosity that was Peter’s tortured Alpha form.  Derek looks like Laura did, when Stiles and Scott dug her up that time at the Hale House - she is, in short, actually a wolf.  She has a _tail._  They must have dipped the arrow in more of that wolfsbane, Stiles thinks hysterically. 

Beyond the bars, the hunters are watching the two of them warily. Derek is twisting and writhing frantically, snapping at the arrow with her teeth, unable to reach.  She is not, Stiles is immensely grateful to note, ripping Stiles to tiny little shreds.  Stiles holds very still, just in case.

Out in the hall, Mr. Michaels snorts impatiently.

“Come on, Son,” he says, turning away, “Either it’ll work and she’ll be rabid enough to rip the girl to pieces, or we’ll catch one of the others and throw them in too.  The younger ones won’t have as much control, especially this close to the full moon.”

Stiles waits until she’s sure they’re gone before pushing herself upright.  Derek is still turning in circles, alternately snapping at the arrow with her teeth and making pained whimpering noises that make Stiles stomach hurt.  Stiles gets her legs under her and holds out one hand.  Just like Aesop, she thinks.

“Derek,” she says, keeping her voice soft, non-threatening, “Derek, stop that, you’re not helping.  Come here.”

Derek whines, contorting frantically. Stiles forces herself to her feet, ignores her spinning head, and approaches cautiously.  Stiles has never seen a real wolf, but Derek’s wolf is _huge._ And intimidating.  And has very sharp teeth.  And very sharp claws, as Stiles has recent reason to know.

“Derek,” Stiles says, “hold still, come on, quit thrashing around.”

Derek turns and snaps at her, crouching low and growling.

Suddenly, Stiles has had enough.  She’s injured and terrified, and there has been _way_ too much adrenalin running through her system over the last hour or so and she is _done_ being threatened by her own allies.  Stiles puts her hands on her hips, wincing at the tug on her shoulders, and says sternly, “Now you look here Ms. Sourwolf.  Sit down and stop being such a baby for like, _five seconds_ so I can pull that arrow out.  You’re just making it worse!”

Derek’s ears droop and she lowers her head, abashed.   She doesn’t sit but (wonder of wonders!) she does stop moving.  Stiles inches forward, hands out - _I come in peace -_ until she’s close enough to lay one hand on Derek’s shoulder, just next to the shaft of the arrow.  Derek’s body is trembling under Stiles’ hand, and she _whines_ deep in her throat when Stiles touches her, but she doesn’t try to bite Stiles’ hand off, so Stiles counts it as a win.

“Right,” Stiles says shakily, “I’m going to pull this arrow out, and it’s going to _hurt,_ you get me?  Probably a lot, so I need you to remember that Stilinskis are friends, not food, and not enemy hunters either.  Pack, got it?  So no mauling your medical stand-in.”

Derek’s crimson wolf-eyes narrow suspiciously, but then she whines again and turns her head to lick at Stiles’ arm, and Stiles figures that’s as much of a go-ahead as she’s going to get.

“Here goes,” she mutters, and yanks the arrow out in one swift motion, stepping back quickly as Derek howls and snaps at the air where Stiles had just been standing.  It takes more effort than Stiles anticipated, and she realizes why when she sees the arrowhead, barbed like a fishhook.  It probably did more damage coming out than going in, she realizes, feeling ill.  She’s tempted to throw it away, but it’s the only weapon she’s got, and who knows?  Maybe she’ll get the chance to stab a hunter with it.  One can only hope.  Meanwhile, she watches Derek come down from the initial agony and twist to eye the bleeding wound on her shoulder.  It doesn’t seem to be healing, and Stiles remembers the wolfsbane.

“Damn,” she says softly, “I don’t know what to do about that.” Which of course turns Derek’s attention back to Stiles. 

“Oh, uh, don’t mind me,” Stiles says nervously, as Derek pads over to stand next to her, “I’m just, you know.  Here.  Not causing anyone soul-crushing agony with emergency field-surgery.”

But Derek just butts her head against Stiles’ arm and after a moment Stiles reaches out to scratch cautiously behind her ears. Derek leans into her and Stiles can't help smiling just a little.

“Not changing back, huh?  Okay, let’s see if there’s a way out of here.”

Stiles does a thorough circuit of the cell.  The concrete is solid, and backed by probably hundreds of pounds of dirt.  Stiles digs at it a bit with her bloody arrow, but there’s no give.  The mortar around the bars is a better bet, but it’s frustratingly well-maintained.  What hopes Stiles has of picking the lock on the door with the arrow are shattered when the arrow refuses to fit even slightly through the key-hole.  Stiles doesn’t wear bobby-pins and she suspects lock-picking is actually a lot harder than the movies make it look. 

Derek follows her around, nosing at the bars, pawing at the door.  Eventually, Stiles gives up.  Everything hurts and she’s apparently not going to be busting her way out of here.  She looks down at Derek and says, “Yeah, I’m out of ideas.  Now what?”

Derek reaches out and takes the edge of Stiles’ t-shirt very gently between her teeth and tugs backwards.

“Um.  Okay,” Stiles says, following along, “Where are we - oof.”

Derek tows her to the far back corner of the cell, the one with the deepest, darkest shadows, and shoves at Stiles with her big wolfy head until Stiles falls back against the wall and sits down with a thump that jars her tailbone painfully. Stiles tries not to cringe as Derek stands there, _Derek Hale the actual freaking full-on wolf,_ staring down at her. For a moment they just stand there, regarding each other in silence, and then Stiles’ left shoulder twinges and she winces, raising one hand to inspect the damage. 

Derek sits back on her haunches with a huff, then stretches forward to lick apologetically at the claw marks on Stiles’ shoulder.  Stiles freezes because, _ew,_ and also, _teeth!_ Teeth very close to very vulnerable skin!  But after a moment it actually seems to be easing the sting, so Stiles leaves Derek to it. 

“That’s super gross, you know,” she informs Derek loftily.  “I hope you know that.  Like, this _cannot_ be sanitary.”

Derek manages to give her a surprisingly human side-eye as she switches to lick at Stiles’ other shoulder.

“Yeah, that’s right, this is _totally your fault._ ” Stiles says, and adds sourly, “Bad Alpha, no cookie.”

At that, Derek actually _whimpers_ and sits back looking so forlorn that Stiles relents, reaching out one hand to scratch behind Derek’s ears. 

“Fine,” Stiles says magnanimously, “You get a wolfsbane-induced pass, _this one time._  But no more mistaking Stilinskis for snacks in the future.”

Derek cocks her head to one side, considering, then yawns in Stiles’ face and flops down on top of Stiles’ legs. 

“Oh, _seriously_?” Stiles says, “Really, Sourwolf?  What, are you _nesting_ now?  Get off, you weigh a ton.”

Derek turns her head to look up at Stiles, managing to convey a wealth of disdain in one very short glance, before settling in even more securely and tucking her nose under one paw.

Stiles stares down at her in disbelief.

“Oh my god, you _ginormous furball._ I would _kill_ for a camera right now.”

Derek doesn’t respond, so Stiles leans her head back against the wall and contemplates her life choices.  Clearly, her decision-making is deeply, _deeply_ flawed.  She’s stuck in a cell with a drugged, injured werewolf who threatens to kill her on a semi-regular basis even when she’s _not_ high.  She’s got psycho-fanatic hunters for jailors, a single barbed arrow for a weapon and no sign of rescue.  Rescue may, in fact, be in need of a separate rescue, but thoughts like that are just not helpful, so Stiles shoves them into a far corner of her mind and focuses on taking deep breaths and not freaking out. Time to hurry up and wait. 

Stiles falls asleep with her hands buried in the thick fur of wolf-Derek’s neck, and wakes up absently stroking the long black hair of a very human Derek Hale.

Stiles starts and jerks back, yelping.  Derek, curled up peacefully on Stiles’ lap in the rags of clothing that had survived her shapeshifting (and which do not, by the way, appear to meet the minimum standards of decency for polite society not-that-Stiles-is-looking-that-closely) startles awake as well. 

“Stiles?”

Derek seems confused.  She sits upright and scrubs her hands over her face, hair falling over her shoulders in a way that does nothing really to conceal her state of undress.  Stiles swallows hard, stares diligently at the ceiling and says quickly,

“None of this is my fault so don’t blame me, I didn’t do anything, I’m not the one who tried to _eat somebody_ yesterday and also you’re the one that turned into an _actual wolf_ and curled up on my lap so don’t - don’t eat me.” Stiles finishes breathlessly, slanting her eyes downwards to see how Derek is taking it. 

Derek is frowning, staring at her hands like she’s never seen them before.  When she looks up and catches Stiles watching she seems to shake herself out of it, crossing her arms over her chest and glaring. 

“Gimme your jacket.” Derek snaps, and Stiles hastens to comply, shimmying out of her track-jacket and handing it over, eyes averted. 

“What happened?” Derek asks, when she’s marginally more decent.  She’s turned the tatters of her shirt into a belt of sorts, which she has threaded through the loops of her jeans (which have split along all their seams but seem otherwise intact).  The result is an awkward and extremely risqué sort of long jean skirt topped with Stiles’ track jacket, which is too short in the sleeves and too tight across the shoulders and chest.

Stiles eyes Derek critically and says, “You look like a bag-lady, you realize this, right?”

Stiles doesn’t add that for all she looks like a bag-lady, Derek still looks like a _really hot_ bag-lady. 

Derek snaps out her claws and finger-combs her hair pointedly, using another piece of ruined t-shirt to tie her hair back. She’s moving stiffly, for Derek - the wound in her shoulder still hasn’t healed, but this particular brand of wolfsbane seems designed more to mess with body-chemistry than to kill, so there’s no creeping black lines of infection, just regular angry-red gaping wound.  At least it’s stopped bleeding.

“Shut up and tell me what happened.”

Stiles really, _really_ wants to point out that she can’t _both_ shut up _and_ explain what happened, but she’s pushed her luck far past her usual quota already this week, so she leaves it alone. 

“Well, um,” Stiles starts, as Derek settles onto the floor cross-legged, makeshift jean-skirt pooled in her lap in a way that manages to be both _technically_ decent and also absurdly hot.  Stiles starts as Derek clears her throat and looks at her expectantly.

“Right!” Stiles says, “Right, uh, how much do you remember?”

Derek frowns.  “I remember...they arrested me,” she says, scowling, “For _arson,_ those _bastards._ ” 

Stiles winces in sympathy.

“I’m guessing our hunter friends aren’t _real_ US Marshals,” Derek continues, “But their fake IDs must have been pretty good because they had a cop with them. And then they stuck me with a needle and...I don’t actually remember much after that.”

“Oh,” Stiles says eloquently.  “So, I don’t know what they gave you to knock you out, but by the time I got here they’d drugged you up with some kind of wolfsbane herbal blend o’crazy.  You - you weren’t really yourself.”

Derek’s hands are clenched into fists where they’re resting on her knees.  She looks like she’s visibly restraining herself from pouncing on Stiles and _shaking_ answers out of her.

“Yes?” Derek says instead, “And?” 

“And, uh, Chris Argent laid down the Hunter Law pretty clearly the other day but...yeah, they thought they’d get around the fact that you actually haven’t killed any humans by, well.  By shoving a human in here with you while you were all crazy-face.”

Derek’s expression has gone completely blank. 

“You.” She says flatly, “They locked you in with an out-of-control wolf.  With me.”

Stiles laughs a little, nervously, and shrugs. “Well, they kinda already had it in for me.  Guess they figured it wouldn’t be too much of a loss.  And I would just like to take this moment to register a _very firm_ complaint with playing the Sacrificial Victim here.  I get that I’m probably not going to be Batman all the time or...ever, but I am _not_ going to be the Tragic Cautionary Tale.”

Derek doesn’t even crack a smile, which, Stiles is trying for some _levity_ here, it would be nice to be appreciated just a little _._

“But, hey, still here.  It didn’t _work,_ obviously.” Stiles babbles, aiming for reassuring, though it’s not quite clear why she feels the need to reassure _Derek_ when _Stiles_ is the one who nearly got eaten.

“Did I hurt you?”

Derek’s hazel eyes are dark, her expression closed and hard.  She looks oddly vulnerable.

“I - a little,” Stiles admits, hurrying on when she sees the look on Derek’s face. “It’s nothing that won’t heal, don’t - I mean, it’s okay. I’m okay.  And you didn’t bite me. Oh, and your shoulder hurts because they shot you with an arrow, which I pulled out of you - you’re welcome by the way - and it’s not healing properly because I think it had something on it? Like the same kind of wolfsbane.  You...you shifted into...I don’t know, I’ve never seen that form before.  You were like an _actual wolf._ Except, like.  Really big?  I think it was the same stuff as before, I think they were hoping you’d forget yourself and the wolf side would, um.”

Derek looks up.  “Yes, how _did_ you manage to keep me from killing you?  When we lose control  it’s... it’s bad.  And I’ve...actually never completed the shift before.  It’s dangerous because you’re so far from your human self.  Ideally, you’re not supposed to shift all the way without supervision, in case you forget yourself......” Derek meets her eyes, expression haunted. “You should be dead, Stiles.”

“I, uh,” Stiles can feel herself blushing, she’s not even sure why. “You were, sort of, pinning me down and I thought you were going to _actually_ rip my throat out, so I thought about what you said about pack, and, in a real pack, like, out in the wild, right, you show you’re not a threat and so I. Yeah.”

It takes Derek a few seconds to parse that one out, and then she says, “You _bared your throat_ to an uncontrolled werewolf?”

Derek looks appalled. 

“I, yeah.” Stiles shrugs.  “It was all I could think of - it’s not like I could have stopped you, but you - you stopped yourself.”

Derek just stares at her in horror, then drops her head into her hands for a moment, takes a deep breath and looks back up. 

“So that’s it?  They just...left?”

“Well,” Stiles’ lips quirk in spite of herself, “You weren’t cooperating with the whole gutting me thing - which is when they shot you with that arrow and you shifted completely into a wolf which, uh, is why your clothes are all, um.” Stiles waves both hands in a way that’s intended to convey “shredded” or possibly “missing and generally un-wearable.”  “Anyway,” she hurries on, feeling herself blushing _again,_ “They got fed up and left.  They’ll probably be back soon - they said they were going to check back later, or -” Stiles pauses.  “They said maybe one of the others, they’re not as experienced, they have less control...They’re going to try to get one of the others, give them the same drug.  Right before they grabbed me, I heard - I think something’s wrong. With the others.  They were looking for you by the quarry and I heard them howling...I think the hunters might have set some kind of trap, they said one way or another...”

Stiles stumbles to a halt and shivers, rubbing her arms stiffly, avoiding Derek’s eyes.

“Could you,” Stiles starts hesitantly, “...do you think you could stop one of the others?  If they forgot they were human? If you forget again?”

“Yes.” Derek says instantly, no hesitation. 

“Oh,” Stiles says, “Well, good, I guess.”

And then there’s really not much to do but wait. 

 

***

It’s at least a few hours later when the hunters reappear, three of them this time.  Michaels, Michaels Junior, and a man Stiles’ presumes is the other Fake US Marshal.  Fake US Marshal is blond, with a crew-cut and the kind of face that just screams, “Trust me, I’m an officer of the law and I’m here to protect _you._ ”  Stiles thinks this is tragic and unfair (false advertizing!) and she scowls at him.  He tips an imaginary hat at Stiles.  Stiles glares back, hearing a faint growl emanating from Derek, who is climbing gracefully to her feet from her spot against the wall.

“Code breakers one, two and three,” Stiles says acidly, getting to her feet as well - with, it must be said, significantly less grace and more awkwardness than Derek, damn her werewolf hide.  “Nice of you to drop by.  Here to apologize for your many and varied crimes?”

Fake US Marshal laughs out loud. 

“Ah, no,” he says cheerfully, “But you’ll be getting some company soon.  Just stopping by to make sure you’re prepared.”

There’s a quick motion, and then Derek is shouldering in front of Stiles, slamming her back against the far wall.

“Dude, _what,_ ” Stiles starts to say, then glances down at the arrow Derek has caught in her other hand, inches from pinning Stiles’ shoulder to the wall. 

Stiles gapes down at it stupidly, then looks up at the hunters. 

“Seriously?” She says shakily, “I thought hunters didn’t kill humans.”

“Just testing her reflexes,” Fake US Marshal says easily, “And the rules on collaborators are somewhat fuzzy.”

“Are they,” Stiles says faintly, then, anger rising, “ _Fuzzy?_ I’ll show you _fuzzy_ you conniving piece of crap excuse for a hunter -”

Stiles starts forward unthinkingly and Derek pushes her back into the wall for a second time, hissing, “ _Shut up,_ Stiles, you have a death wish or something?”

Stiles subsides, vibrating with fury, her whole body thrumming with anger and adrenalin and, yep, there it is, a healthy dose of mortal terror. 

“And what do you mean ‘company’?” Stiles demands, heart racing, thinking of Scott. Derek must be able to sense her fear, because she growls and takes one threatening step forward.

“Oh, your little friends.  It’s cute, really.  You weren’t doing so badly, Hale - we laid a trap down by the quarry and your pack of maladjusted misfits walked right into it looking for you.  You coulda had something there, but don’t worry, we’ll be bringing them to join you soon.” Fake US Marshall tells them, grinning broadly.  

Derek snaps the arrow she’s still holding and flings it at the bars with a snarl.  Stiles thinks she might have lunged at them herself, but she seems reluctant to get too far away from Stiles.

“Come on Brad,” Fake US Marshal says, handing off his crossbow. “Gotta get your target practice in sometime.”

Brad takes the crossbow nervously.

“Brad!” Stiles says, feeling her eyes widen. “Don’t!  You don’t have to do this, we haven’t done _anything._ We could have killed you _twice,_ and we didn’t, because we seriously don’t want to hurt anyone - we’re just trying to survive here, _come on._ ”

For a moment, Brad looks uncertain, and then his father lays one big hand on his shoulder and says, “Remember your mother,” and just like that Brad’s expression hardens, eyes gone cold.

“No such thing as an innocent werewolf,” he says, “just human casualties waiting to happen.”  It sounds like a mantra, repeated so often the words have almost lost their meaning.

“ _I’m_ a human casualty waiting to happen!” Stiles yelps from over Derek’s shoulder, and Derek huffs something that might have been a laugh.

“Not so’s you’d notice,” Fake US Marshall says dryly.

“Pick your target,” Michaels Senior tells Brad, ignoring the byplay, “Doesn’t matter which.  If the human girl moves, shoot her.”

“I seriously cannot believe you people,” Stiles snaps, “You think an _arrow wound_ isn’t going to look suspicious?  How is this a good plan?  This is, like, the dumb jock school of seriously crappy planning right here.”

“Oh, but there won’t be an arrow wound,” Michaels Senior says calmly, “It’ll heal when you’re turned.”

“What?  When I’m _what_? _”_

“Turned,” Derek answers tightly, “They think if they injure you badly enough I’ll give you the bite.”

“...But I said I didn’t want the bite,” Stiles says stupidly.  From the hallway, the hunters are watching them.

“Doesn’t matter,” Derek says, eyes on the hunters. “They think I’ll turn you.”

“Or we can wait until your friends get here.” Michaels Senior agrees, “Either way.” 

Stiles curses fervently, pressing back against the wall in a vain attempt to become one with the concrete.  Beside her, Derek growls, and shifts to stand completely in front of Stiles, blocking her off from the hunters.  Through the bars, Stiles sees Brad’s lips curl in a wordless snarl, sees him loose the arrow.  Derek catches it easily, snaps it in her hands, but then Michaels Senior is raising a second crossbow...and then it’s just a matter of time.  All Stiles can do is watch, helpless, as Derek tries to catch all the arrows the hunters are shooting at them.  For a short while, Derek manages, hands moving like quicksilver, snatching bolts out of the air to drop them harmlessly on the floor.  But then Fake US Marshall gets bored and pulls out a third crossbow. 

“Lights out, Hale,” he says sardonically, and Derek catches the arrow aimed at her forehead, and the one driving for her throat, but now there’s a third arrow as well.  Derek’s fast enough to dodge that one too, but Stiles isn’t. 

Derek doesn’t dodge the arrow.  It slams into her left shoulder, knocking her backwards into Stiles with a pained grunt.  Stiles grabs at her frantically, and then the next flight of arrows is incoming.  Derek catches one, deflects another, and falls to her knees as the third arrow hits her in the thigh. 

Stiles drops to her knees as well, hating herself for using Derek as a (semi) human shield, holding Derek as she shudders, skin rippling, shifting involuntarily. More souped-up wolfsbane.  Joy. Stiles releases her hold on Derek and tries to get out of the way without making herself a target.  It’s exactly as difficult as it sounds. 

When Derek shifts into her full wolf form her makeshift skirt is immediately toast, falling to the floor in sad little strips of cloth.  The track jacket however, is clinging tenaciously, which means that Derek is now a _wolf in a red track jacket._ Stiles would be rolling on the floor laughing if she weren’t so petrified.

Derek crouches in front of Stiles, growling, and Stiles watches with a sick sense of resignation as the hunters raise their bows again. She’s waiting for the first bolt to hit, wondering morbidly if they’ll go for a kill shot or the aforementioned mortal-injury route when Michaels Senior shouts in pain, dropping his bow as an arrow buries itself in his shoulder with a vicious hiss.  Stiles is left staring in amazement, dizzy with relief as Allison stalks into view like an avenging Artemis, Scott, Isaac, Boyd, and Erica bounding along behind her. Everyone but Allison looks somewhat the worse for wear - their clothes are torn and they’re uniformly covered in mud and dust. 

“Leave them alone!” Scott growls, eyes flashing, claws out, pure, righteous outrage in every line of his body. Scott has always been a bit melodramatic and Stiles has never been so happy to see him. 

Brad and Fake US Marshal have turned to face the threat, but Allison has already reloaded and -

“Drop ‘em,” says Sheriff Stilinski, stone-faced, hand steady on the gun he’s aiming at Fake US Marshal’s head.

For a moment, everyone freezes.  Stiles waits, holding her breath, as her dad clicks the safety off with a pointed flick of his thumb.

“I said, _drop ‘em_. _”_

“Better do it,” Allison advises, “That’s his daughter you were shooting at.”

Slowly, the hunters lower their weapons.  Stiles starts breathing again and Derek whines.

“Good choice,” Scott says, and because it’s Scott he sounds honestly congratulatory.  Stiles would have laughed if she’d had the energy.  She watches as Scott and the betas secure the hunters while Allison and her dad keep them covered with bow and gun, respectively. 

“How the _hell_ did they get here?” Mr. Michaels snaps at Fake US Marshall, “I thought you said they were neutralized!”

“They _were,_ ” Fake US Marshall protests, “I set it up myself -”

“About that,” Erica says with a smirk, tossing her tousled curls, “Nice little trap you set up there.  Fortunately, we’re smarter than we look.  Just slowed us down a little.”

“The mountain ash was a good touch,” Isaac adds helpfully.  “Probably would’ve worked if we hadn’t had some human friends.”

“Sucks when your enemies have allies, doesn’t it?” Allison says, with false sympathy.  Stiles loves all of them with everything she has.

Boyd rolls his eyes as Scott shakes the hunters down for the keys to the cell and then Isaac, Boyd and Erica frog-march them away.  So much for keeping a low profile, Stiles thinks wearily.

Once the hunters are gone, Allison, Scott and Stiles’ dad turn to the cell. 

“Stiles,” her dad says urgently, “Are you alright?”

“Hi,” Stiles says, waving weakly from her place on the floor. “I’m fine, good timing.  Go team.”

Beside her, Derek growls warningly.

Scott, who had been about to open the cell door, pauses, studies Derek hard and lowers his hand.

“Uh, Stiles?” he says, questioning.  “What’s wrong with Derek?” at the same time, there’s the sound of a gun cocking and Stiles looks up to see her dad, expression tight, pointing his gun at Derek, who responds with a truly terrifying snarl. 

“Dad!” Stiles says frantically, scrambling to her feet and stepping in front of a crouched and snarling Derek, “Dad, it’s okay, she’s not going to hurt me, she’s -”

Derek growls ominously, grabs the back of Stiles’ t-shirt in her teeth and yanks backwards, pushing around Stiles to stand, bristling and protective, between her and the rest of the _world,_ apparently.

Sheriff Stilinski takes a step forward, gun raised uncertainly, and Stiles throws up her hands in frustration and stumbles as Derek presses against her legs, pushing her towards the back of the cell.  Stiles buries her hands in Derek’s fur and holds on.

“Just, look, see?  She’s fine, don’t shoot, she’s _protecting_ me _._ ”

Allison and Scott are watching dubiously, and Stiles turns to them in desperation.

“It’s a - a crazy doctored-up wolfsbane blend,” she explains hurriedly, “It brings out the wolf, forces the change.  She’s fine, I swear, we just...need to get rid of the wolfsbane.”

Allison still looks dubious, but Scott nods, like all this somehow makes _sense_ to him, and says to Stiles’ dad, “I think it’s alright Sir, Derek won’t hurt her.”

“ _That’s_ Derek Hale?” Sheriff Stilinski mutters, and he looks far from convinced that Derek’s not a threat, but he lowers his weapon anyway.

Stiles sighs in relief, but when Scott moves to unlock the door Derek’s hackles rise and she starts growling again. 

“Oh my god,” Stiles says incredulously, “It’s a _rescue,_ you idiot!”

Derek ignores her, eyes flashing red.  Scott lowers his hand again.

“How long does this wolfsbane stuff last?” He asks, worry coloring his voice.

Stiles rubs her forehead wearily. 

“I don’t know.  I think, I think we have to get the arrows out first.  I can do it, just, don’t shoot anyone, okay?”

“Okay...” Scott says, and Allison asks anxiously,

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing, Stiles?”

“Yeah,” Stiles mutters, “Easy as falling off a log.”

She moves so she can catch Derek’s eyes, holds her gaze until she’s sure she’s got Derek’s attention.

“I have to take the arrows out,” Stiles says apologetically, “Like last time.”

Derek’s upper lip curls back slightly from her teeth.

“None of that,” Stiles says quickly, “I’ll be fast.  It’ll hurt, but then I promise you’ll feel better.”

Derek gives her a deeply skeptical look, and Stiles sighs.  Turning to her audience, watching awkwardly from the hallway, she says, “Look, can someone get me some water?  The wolfsbane won’t come out on its own and I don’t think she’ll change back until it’s gone.”

Allison nods and vanishes in a flash of dark curls.  Scott comes forward, hanging on to the bars to watch.  Sheriff Stilinski follows, one hand still laid on the gun he’s holstered at his side.

“Stiles?” he says, pouring _volumes_ of worry into the single syllable of her name.

“Fine,” Stiles says, “no sudden movements though.  You too Scott.” 

Stiles takes a deep breath and yanks out the arrow lodged in Derek’s shoulder.  Derek yelps and shies away, but, somewhat to Stiles’ surprise, she doesn’t snap, just stands a few feet off, eyes glowing red, whole body trembling.  Cautiously, Stiles follows after her. 

“One more, then we’re done,” Stiles tells her reassuringly, then, at the look Derek gives her, “Right, yes, I know.  I’m not your favorite person right now, but seriously.”

Derek curls her lips back from her teeth in the suggestion of a growl, but she does at least seem to be holding still.

Stiles puts one hand on Derek’s back for leverage, and reaches for the arrow with the other.  The shaft has broken off in the middle, and the wood is slippery with blood.  Mountain Ash, no doubt.   Stiles gets a firm grip and _pulls,_ backing away immediately while Derek struggles visibly not to lash out.

When Stiles looks back at Scott and her dad, she finds both of them white-faced, watching Derek with wide-eyed apprehension. 

“Done,” Stiles says, just as Allison comes running in with two Nalgenes of water.

“Oh, good,” Allison says with great satisfaction, “you got the arrows out.”

Derek snarls at her halfheartedly, and turns to lick at her wounds.  From the way she’s kind of trying to wolf-spit at the same time, she’s clearly disgusted by the taste of  -

“Hey!” Stiles says, swatting at Derek automatically. “Stop that! That’s stuff’s poisonous, just chill out.”

“What’s she growling at _me_ for,” Allison demands crossly, “I’m _helping._ ”

Stiles raises her eyebrows at Allison and holds out her hand for the Nalgenes.  “She doesn’t even like _Scott_ right now, and he’s a werewolf.  I wouldn’t take it too personally.”

Allison still looks disgruntled, but she hands Stiles the water bottles. 

“Hurry up,” Allison tells her, “The EMTs are getting anxious.”

“There’s EMTs?!” Stiles yelps. “Of course there’s EMTs, okay, okay.  Derek?  No, don’t you back away from me, we need to get rid of the wolfsbane so you can change _back_ and not give the nice EMTs heart attacks.”

Derek ignores Stiles and continues inching backwards.  From the hallway, Stiles can hear Allison’s muffled giggle as she chases grimly after Derek.  Stiles doesn’t exactly _corner_ Derek, because cornering an injured werewolf is just _stupid,_ but she does stalk after her until Derek finally gives up and holds still while Stiles dumps the contents of the Nalgenes over the arrow wounds in her shoulders and her leg.  When the Nalgenes are empty Stiles sits back on her heels and eyes the miserable, shivering, wet-furred mess that is Derek Hale. 

“Come on,” Stiles mutters, “Change back.  We can’t take you out like this.” 

Stiles looks back at Scott and Allison, tries not to meet her dad’s eyes.  Scott shrugs, Allison frowns, and Stiles’ dad says, “What’s she doing?”

Stiles looks back as, with what is obviously a huge effort, Derek shifts human again. She’s panting by the time she’s done, hunched over her knees on the floor and incidentally, almost _completely_ devoid of clothing.  The remnants of Stiles’ track-jacket are clinging tenaciously, but it’s not exactly what you’d call full coverage.

“Um,” Scott says eloquently, clapping one hand over his eyes, and holding the keys out blindly in the Sheriff’s direction. “I’ll go, uh, get a blanket or something.”

Allison makes a face and shrugs out of her stylish corduroy jacket, tossing it to Stiles, who hands it to Derek whose muttered “Thanks” is only barely audible.  

Stiles’ dad unlocks the door and steps into the cell, and Stiles stands up to be folded into a crushing embrace.  Stiles winces at the pressure on her injured shoulders, but it feels good to be held, and the relief of not having to lie any more is very nearly overwhelming, so Stiles just stands there, face mashed into her dad’s shoulder and feeling _safe._

“ _God,_ Stiles,” her dad is saying into her hair, “you _disappeared,_ I thought you were _dead._ ”

“‘m sorry,” Stiles mutters into his shirt, “I didn’t mean to worry you, or drag you into this, I swear.”

Stiles’ dad releases her and holds her away at arms’ length, looking her over critically, eyes narrowed as he gets a good look at the claw marks.

“You said you were fine,” Stiles’ dad says accusingly.

“I _am_ fine,” Stiles says, and the Sheriff sighs.

“How, exactly, do you define ‘fine’, Stiles?”

“Not dying?” Stiles tries, wincing even as the words leave her mouth.

“Yeah,” the Sheriff says, “I thought you might say that.  You know Melissa McCall phoned me?  Wanted to know if you’d told me the truth about your little mishap in the preserve.”

“Oh, right,” Stiles says weakly, “I was totally going to tell you about that, I really was, there just wasn’t a good time, and-”

“Not a good time to tell me a bunch of psychos caught you in a _hunting snare_ and were _torturing you?_ ”

“Is there ever really a good time for that?” Stiles tries then slumps.  “I know, I’m grounded for forever and we’re having a Talk when we get home.”

“Bingo” Stiles’ father says darkly, “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Scott reappears with a bright orange shock blanket and hands it to Stiles while carefully avoiding looking in Derek’s direction.  Stiles snorts and takes the blanket over to Derek, who nods her thanks, wraps the blanket around herself like a sarong and climbs to her feet looking _exceedingly_ put upon. She’s handling it all with significantly more dignity that Stiles would be if it were her, but Stiles almost laughs anyway.  Derek’s injuries, free of wolfsbane, are knitting together rapidly - they vanish into clean, unbroken skin as Stiles watches. The Sheriff shakes his head in amazement. 

“You’re going to tell me _everything,_ Stiles,” he tells her, but when he takes her arm to lead her out of the cell, Stiles can feel the tremors in his hands. 

Stiles ducks her head, leans into her father, and walks out to meet the rest of the rescue party.

 

 

 

 

 

***

 

Eleven very long hours later, after (more) stitches and painkillers, and antiseptic – (“These cuts are actually…surprisingly clean,” the EMT had told Stiles as she cleaned out the gashes on her shoulders.  Derek, sitting on the back of the ambulance next to Stiles, still wrapped in the shock blanket, had smirked.) – Stiles is sitting alone in her room and trying not to hyperventilate.

Once the adrenalin of the rescue had worn off, and the first rush of relief at Stiles being alive and (mostly) unharmed had faded, Stiles’ father had been _furious._ They’d all sat down at the Stilinski house (neutral territory) to hash things out – the whole pack, plus Scott, plus Allison and Chris Argent.  Sheriff Stilinski had been a hairsbreadth from packing it all in, just up and relocating to somewhere without supernatural threats to his daughter, job and roots and house be damned.  It had taken Chris Argent, of all people, pointing out that Beacon Hills wasn’t the only town with a case of the supernatural, and that here, at least, Stiles knew who most of the major players were, and that most of those players were _on her side,_ to nix that idea.

Stiles had spent the meeting sitting between Scott and Erica, ragged fingernails digging into her palms, and feeling progressively smaller with every disappointed look her father threw her way.

The meeting ended when Sheriff Stilinski stood up and said shortly, “Fine.  But from now on we work together.  Chris, I accept that you’ve been in this business longer than I have, and you’ve got contacts and training and experience.  I’ll want in on the training and I want to know everything you know.  You keep me in the loop or I swear to god I’ll make your life a living hell.  Something happens my people aren’t equipped to handle, you let me know _before_ it goes down.  This vigilante justice thing doesn’t sit right at the best of times, but it’s got to at least be under control.  You deal with the supernatural threats, I’ll stick with the human ones, and _don’t think that doesn’t mean your hunters_ if they step out of line.”

“They weren’t _my_ hunters,” Chris Argent had started irritably, but the Sheriff had cut him off with a sharp gesture.

“I don’t care.  I was the _last person_ in Beacon Hills to know Stiles was in danger, and I’m the _Sheriff_ as well as her father.  You keep me in the loop.”

Chris Argent had nodded, Allison watching him anxiously from Scott’s other side.

“Come by tomorrow, I’ll show you the ropes.”

“What about us?” Derek had asked, from where she was standing, arms crossed, by her pack.

Sheriff Stilinski had sighed.

“As far as I’m concerned, so long as you don’t hurt anyone, I’ve got no problem with you.  But I expect you to keep me informed as well.  If there are new wolves in town, I want to know about them.  I realize you people like to play it close to the chest and handle this stuff yourselves, but that ends today.  Hunters _and_ wolves. Nobody new and supernaturally affiliated enters my town without me knowing about it. Everybody clear?”

Derek and Chris had both nodded.

“I think we can do that,” Derek had said, reaching out to lay a calming hand on Isaac’s curly head.  Isaac and the other betas had relaxed visibly, Isaac shifting slightly to lean against Derek’s leg.

Stiles had let out the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, and Scott and Allison had exchanged relieved glances. And then everyone had dispersed.  The Argents leaving first (Allison with a significant backward glance at Scott), then Derek and the betas, and finally, Scott.

And then it was just Stiles and her father.  Sheriff Stilinski had turned to Stiles, standing awkwardly in the middle of the living room, and sighed. 

“You could have died.  You know that, right?”

“I know,” Stiles had whispered, looking at the floor.

“Do you realize what that would do to me?  Losing you too?  _God,_ Stiles, just.” He’d moved forward and pulled her into a hug. “I’m so glad you’re safe.  And I love you so much.” He’d said into her hair, and then stepped back and said, “but I’m also _really_ angry.  I can’t believe you kept this from me!”

“I’m sorry, Dad.” Stiles had said helplessly.  “I’m really sorry.”

The Sheriff sighed again.

“Alright, go get some sleep.  We’ll talk more in the morning.  But Stiles?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t you ever pull a stunt like that again, you hear me?”

“Yes, Dad.”

And then Stiles had fled for her room, where she’s been sitting in bed ever since, unable to even think about sleeping, staring blankly into the dark.

Stiles is almost too wrapped up in an impending worlds-colliding-panic-attack to notice when Derek climbs in through her window. 

“Derek?” She says, squinting.

“No shit,” Derek agrees, dropping down from the windowsill and moving into the room.  “What’s wrong? I could hear your heart pounding halfway across town.  It’s not your shoulders, is it?  Did I bite you and you didn’t tell me?  Stiles!”

“Wha-” Stiles had kinda zoned out there for a moment, and suddenly Derek is crouched right next to her and she looks...concerned. 

Derek leans forward to sniff at the bandaging on Stiles’ shoulders, then sits back on her heels with a huff. Stiles blinks, feels her heart-rate start to settle. 

“Derek.  What are you doing here?”

Derek narrows her eyes. 

“Did you hear _anything_ I just said?”

“Ummmm, sorta? What do you want?  Is it an emergency?  I’m done with emergencies, check back in a week or two.” Stiles wraps her arms around herself with a shiver.  She’s bone tired and all she wants to do is sleep, but she’s still too wired and miserable and achy. Her dad is going to start training with _Chris Argent_ tomorrow and all Stiles can see is her father, torn apart by wolves, or pincushioned with arrows, staring at her with dying eyes that say, _you did this._

“ _Stiles”_ Derek says, “ _breathe._ ”

Stiles hiccups, takes a proper breath, holds it, lets it out.  Derek is now sitting next to her on the bed, frowning intently.  She’s got both hands laid along the sides of Stiles’ face, long fingers curled steady against the back of her neck. She gives Stiles a little shake and says, “Breathe, you’re fine.”

Stiles reaches up and wraps both hands tightly around Derek’s wrists, clinging.

“This will kill my dad,” she blurts out.  “He’ll be a target, he’ll _make himself_ a target and then he’ll die and it will be _my fault._ ”

Derek flinches but she doesn’t move, and her eyes, when Stiles meets them, are steady.

“Your dad’s a pretty tough nut,” Derek tells her.  “He can take care of himself and _if he can’t_ we’re here to back him up.  We’ll look out for him, Stiles, all of us will.  Pack means watching each other’s backs.  It’s going to be okay.”

“How can you know that?” Stiles asks, digging her fingers in, “You _can’t know that._ ”

“I don’t,” Derek admits, “but I can promise you we’ll be looking out for him.  And for you.  He’s going to be _working with the Argents._ If having friends amongst the wolves _and_ the hunters isn’t a good security system I don’t know what is.”

“He’ll have enemies from both sides too,” Stiles reminds her, loosening her grip.  Derek lets her go and sits back.

“True, but then, so will all of us.  And we’re stronger together than we are apart.  Would you do anything differently?”

Stiles thinks.  Body-hunting in the woods had been stupid, no doubt about it, but once Scott had been bitten, it’s been all damage control all the time.

“No.  Not once Scott was turned anyway.”

“Alright then. Your dad will get used to this.  You’ll be fine.”

There’s a sadness in Derek’s voice, and Stiles remembers once again that her family is gone, all save Peter, still lurking around with a few screws loose. Stiles realizes that she is, to some extent, wallowing.  Stiles has still got one parent left, and Stiles isn’t even the one who got shot full of arrows recently, so all in all, she’s come out ahead on this one. 

“I’m sorry,” Stiles says, “Of course we’ll be fine.  I was just...acclimating, I guess.”

Derek sighs. 

“Yeah.  Okay, now can you please stop freaking out and go to sleep like a normal person?”

Stiles snorts.

“Normal, right.  _Speaking of,_ did you say what you were doing here?  Because creeping into people’s rooms at night does not qualify as ‘normal’.  In case you were wondering.”

Derek rolls her eyes. 

“I said.  I could hear you freaking out from halfway across town. I thought maybe something was wrong, with the...scratches.  Or something.”

“Oh,” Stiles says, “Okay that makes - waaait.  From _halfway across town?_ How come you can hear me from _halfway across town?!_ ”

Stiles can hear her voice rising and Derek makes a sharp _shushing_ motion.  They both glance guiltily towards the door, then, when nothing stirs, relax.

“You were _broadcasting,_ okay?” Derek says, defensive. 

“Broadcasting.” Stiles repeats flatly.

Derek glares.

“Yes, broadcasting.  _Really loudly,_ I might add.”

“Oh, so wait, what about Scott?  And the betas?” 

“I think Scott is otherwise occupied, at the moment, and none of them were born wolves.  I was.  You learn to pay attention to these things.”

Especially, Stiles imagines, if you came home one day to find your entire family burned to ash.  I imagine that would make you pay attention.  Still...

“Scott says he can only pick Allison out of a crowd.” 

Derek’s lip curls in disdain and she says, “ _Scott_ has a one-track mind, but yes, it’s easier to pick out a lover.  Anyone you’re close to - lover, family, _pack._ Scott will learn to pick out pack too.  He knows you, he just doesn’t think about it much.  He’ll learn.”  She lifts one hand to the bruise on Stiles’ cheek, then drops it and stands abruptly.

“But you’re fine, the scratches are healing - better than they might be otherwise, actually, and… you’re fine.”

Stiles finds that she’s wrapped her fingers in the sleeve of Derek’s leather jacket, is holding her anchored.  Stiles blushes as Derek looks skeptically from Stiles’ hand to her face, but hangs on.

“Thanks,” she says, determinedly, “For not ripping my throat out.  And for…for everything.”

_For protecting me.  For taking an arrow – two arrows – for me.  For my dad._

Derek sighs and leans over to push Stiles flat, perching delicately on the edge of the bed.  “You came to get me.” She says simply, “You came out in the woods in the dark and the cold on a half-healed sprained ankle with no backup and no cell reception.”

Stiles fidgets.  “I was waiting for backup when they caught me.  I texted the pack,” she explains, suddenly feeling the need to justify herself.

“Uh huh.” Derek is clearly unimpressed.

“Still,” Stiles says, starting to crash now, but persistent, “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Derek says, “now go to sleep.”

She brushes Stiles’ hair out of her face, oddly gentle, and her fingers are cool against the heat of Stiles’ bruises.

“Stop freaking out,” Derek murmurs.  “You did good, the pack did good.  And we’re going to be okay.”

And then Derek leans over, and she was probably aiming for Stiles’ forehead or her cheek or something, but then Stiles shifts, sleepy and starting to drift now that all the adrenalin and lingering terror are fading, and Derek’s lips brush Stiles’, just for an instant.  It’s so brief Stiles might almost have imagined it, and - 

“Derek?” Stiles says, and then Derek is standing up and moving away.

“Go to sleep, Stiles.” She hears, and then the sound of her window closing. 

 

 


End file.
